


Destiny's Bloom

by PhoenixDiamond



Category: Trolls (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Humor, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mild Angst, Mild Cheating, Mild Language, Romance, Romance Buildup, eventual LEMONS, mild violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-30
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-02-08 15:59:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 51,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12868035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixDiamond/pseuds/PhoenixDiamond
Summary: It's that time of year again. The trolls are all a flutter to for the Flower Festival. Each year at the end of summer, the trolls gather at the edge of a meadow outside of the village, and approach to the first flower they spot called Destiny’s Bloom. Every single flower is attached to one other and tradition states that the two trolls who meet from the connecting roots are fated to be together. Only there’s one slight problem this year. Surely fate wouldn’t be so cruel as to bit Creek with the dullest of them all, right? Branch certainly hopes it's dead wrong because like Hell he's spending his life with a pompous jerk like Creek.





	1. Where Destiny Begins

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a new, exciting Breek story for all of you beloved, amazingly beautiful readers. I hope you'll enjoy it! I guesstimate this to be between 15-18 moderately long chapters. Please enjoy and excuse any of those silly mistakes!

 

 

**Where Destiny Begins**

**Chapter 1**

Branch pauses to stare at the bouquets in the flower shop. He’s roaming the village in the middle of the afternoon and he knew all eyes were on him. If he turned around, naturally, all the spies would promptly return to their business and pretend they hadn’t be openly gawking. As if the sight of Branch coming to the village period isn’t nearly as important as whatever task they’d been attending to is.

 

It shouldn’t be all that strange. Maybe he doesn’t come to the village often, but that’s his business. Who cares for all of that loud noise, obnoxious partying and hyperactivity? Not him. He could count on one hand how many times he ever comes to the village per month. It just so happens that this particular month he’s exceeded his usual quota because, well, it’s for important reasons.

 

He has certain items to purchase, _very important_ things to gather before the start of the Chosen Ceremony and that was right around the corner. He wishes he had more time to prepare, but the decision to go was last minute and even now, paranoia was eating at his insides like caterpillars.

 

The Chosen Ceremony is just the start of what will be a six month long liturgy courtship between trolls without mates. It’s a built in instinct that isn’t activate based on age or sex. It just becomes flutterier as the time nears that a troll yearns to share their life with someone else.

 

Branch hadn’t thought the feeling would ever bloom for him. Here he’d gone over twenty years without a tingle and as soon as he turns twenty four, bam, the sensations erupt like a sip of the best cocoa. And it’s been brewing inside his chest for two months. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant, but it’s difficult to ignore. Anytime he wanted to go to bed or eat now, he steadily felt the pinches of loneliness becoming more prominent, the silence in his bunker was more palpable. Before long, all he could think of is companionship, having that special friend who didn’t judge and maybe- maybe having someone around who could understand him.

 

That would be really nice. Great, even. So, it’s why he finally worked up the ambition to brave the perils of going into the congested folds of the Troll Village and seek out gifts for his future mate. Whoever she or he may be.

 

And what’s even better? There’s a guarantee he will have a mate. The Destiny’s Bloom has never, ever failed.

 

He’s witnessed firsthand all of the successful couples joined by the flower and none have ever parted ways. They fit together, loved each other, are perfect for each other. It’s never, ever been wrong.

 

Branch squares off his shoulders, head rising high as a giddy anticipation raced through him. He feels like spinning around and smirking triumphantly at the dubious onlookers and saying that he will have his mate soon. They will love him just as he is and all doubt will be erased of whether he’s capable of happiness. He could even regain his colors again. What a joyous occasion that would be; his mate will love his colors, whatever they may be now that he’s full grown.

 

Branch pushes the door open with a little jingle of the wind chimes on it sharp enough to summon the florist; a bright yellow, red haired troll with crooked reading glasses perched on her pink nose, running from the back greenhouse.

 

“Oh!” Charmy looks like she swallowed her tongue upon seeing Branch there, but she seems to remember her professionalism in time and realize why he was in her shop. She straightens out her dirt stained apron and comes to the counter, wearing a kind smile. “Goodness, it’s rare to see you in the sunshine. Interested in purchasing a few posies?”

 

“I wanted to know about the flowers in your window actually, the ones with the red and white ribbons.” Branch says and points towards the table holding several rows of prettily arranged blooms neatly wrapped in glittery bows.

 

“Our nosegays?” Charmy beckons him to follow her towards the table setup. “They’re our current customer favorite. We thought the theme this year should be small and quaint, private and intimate.”

 

Branch inspects the collection, unmoved. He likes the designs, but not the flowers. None of them pulled them in as much as he’d hoped.

 

“Maybe something else?” Charmy says, reading the uncertainly easily enough. “We have catalogues you can look through to help with your selection.” Charmy fishes around her large front pockets before her hands pull out identical booklets with bright pink covers. She passes him one and he mumbles a soft thanks. “No problem, have a look around the place. You might get inspired for something new.”

 

“Maybe.” Branch replies absently, flipping through the pages.

 

“Cool, lemme know if you need any help!”

 

By the time Branch glances up, Charmy is already returning to the greenhouse. He stares up and down the rows of foreign plants and gorgeous flowers clustering around like a jungle and grumbles in his hands. He looks down at his booklet, and then up once more at the greenery. Tulips, carnations, orchids, lilies, some daises and iris some with bizarre names and smells he’s never encountered before.

 

None of them were what he was after. The book does offer some assistance though.

 

As he scoured the shop’s endless collection, he finds bits and parts of arrangements he liked, but doesn’t favor the rest. Certain flowers are more attractive than others. Others smell better. It became more than finding the most beautiful flower too, now that he’s began to really read through the choices.

 

There’s symbolism behind them all; everything has meaning. Branch wants the flowers to be more than a decoration. Whatever is chosen requires some measure of meaning, or more creatively, allegory.

 

Yes, yes that’s it!

 

Branch beams at the illustrations, suddenly much more enthusiastic than a moment ago now that he has an idea of what he’s after and frantically swipes through the pages, scanning for the perfect one. Something delicate, graceful, strong, and shows his long term affections.

 

But no, none of them match together to portray all he wants. Some weren’t the appropriate color, or stuck out too brightly or were shaped weird. It shouldn’t be this hard.

 

Branch tries to compromise with himself on putting together a few, but couldn’t get past the final meaning and scraped the whole design. He will only get one shot at this. He doesn’t want his mate to regret him being the Chosen One.

 

“Find anything yet or are we still browsing?”

 

Branch turns around with an uneasy smile that he didn’t bother to hide. Charmy comes around the corner, wiping soil off her palms and trailing behind her is another troll, whom Branch easily identifies as her mate, a dark purple and curly orange haired troll name Sawyer.

 

Sawyer, ever the friendly and loud sort, grins wide and claps Branch on the shoulder. “Charmy here says you’re searching for gifts for your mate. About time, I say. A handsome bloke like you can’t go on being lonely forever.”

 

Branch sheepishly ducks his head between his shoulders. “I’m not all that handsome.”

 

“You forget, I knew you when you were yea high,” Sawyer teasingly levels his palm two feet from the ground. “Such a beautiful little shade of—”

 

“Sawyer, don’t ruin the surprise!” Charmy chides. “He probably wants to keep that secret for his mate.”

 

“Oh, oh yes. Good point, love.” Sawyer rubs behind his head, waving his hand apologetically. “Sorry, I tend to run off at the mouth at times. Did you need help at all?” He nods at the booklet in Branch’s grasp. “Did the references help?”

 

Branch licks his lips, glancing around. “I sort of have an idea of what I want, but. . .” he trails off, unsure.

 

“Not a problem,” says Sawyer, retrieving a small notepad from his hair and slips on a pair of reading glasses. “Tell me what you’re looking for. We’ll definitely have it.”

 

“Someone’s confident,” Charmy gibes, folding her arms with a knowing smile. “I know that look too. You better be prepared to fix it yourself. I’m not going to overwork myself today. We’re already swamped with orders.”

 

Sawyer winks at her. “When have I ever been able to make you do anything?”

 

“Never, and don’t you forget it!” She returns the wink, turning around to head back in the greenhouse. “I hope you find what you’re looking for Branch. Congratulations by the way!  
 

“Thanks.” Branch looks between them, at their lingering smiles, the hidden message in their staring and how they seemed to transpire emotions without overly showing it. What he wouldn’t give for a connection so pure.

 

Sawyer leads them to the main counter, gesturing for Branch to pull up a seat from the waiting area.

 

“I’m looking for a number of things,” Branch starts off. “Something to impress them, but not overly boastful. It needs to be beautiful, last a long time, but doesn’t require a whole lot of care. It’s gotta be symbolic of my feelings, but above all else, symbolic of me. Of—of what I am now.”

 

Sawyers gives a long, peculiar stare above his glasses that seems to penetrate Branch’s head. Branch squirms uncomfortably. If it weren’t for knowing how much Sawyer loves plants, Branch doesn’t doubt that Sawyer would be better off as a teacher. With a stare that strong, he could calm the rowdiest children.

 

“It’s _who_ you are, not what. You won’t be gray forever,” Sawyer says. “That aside, were there any colors or fragrances you wanted?”

 

“Nothing too smelly and color doesn’t matter.”

 

“Alright.” The information is jotted down. Sawyer taps his pen against his chin. “Just one question. What are your feelings, the ones you want represented by the flowers?”

 

Branch flushes a little, looking off to the side. “I dunno. I guess to show that I appreciate them for putting up with me or that I won’t be a mistake. Something that—I mean.” Branch rubs up his arm and sighs. “I don’t want them having any regrets.”

 

Sawyer blinks, and his face changes to look solemn. “No one’s ever regretted who they’re mated to, Branch. The flowers are never wrong. You’re pitted with the most suitable troll there is because the flowers feed off your spirits. There’s never a better match. They’ll love you no matter what.”

 

“I hope so.”

 

“It’s definite.” Sawyer claps his notepad shut with an audible snap, smirking when Branch jumps. “I may have just the thing you need,” and walks away with a pep in his step towards the greenhouse.

 

Branch rocks his feet and sighs and looks up at a dozen or so hanging bluebells dangling above in nodding curves above his head. They were all rare shades of deep violet or dark blue, dewdrops shimmering off the petals that hinted at a strange green. All were strong, slender, beautiful blossoms. He wants to wonder what his mate will be like. Just as strong, noble and caring?  Someone sweet and charming? So very many possibilities.

 

He turns in his chair when he hears Sawyer bustling up again, holding a Xanadu colored shallow pot filled of brown soil, framed within by three philodendron leaves. Branch leans away, feeling a little disappointed.

 

“It’s OK, I guess,” he says before Sawyer can speak. “Not exactly what I was expecting. It’s as plain as I am.”

 

Sawyer rolls his eyes, shaking his head, murmuring. “This is our newest breed of flower. Charmy crossbred it herself about three months ago. We were only able to successfully create four. This is our youngest bud.”

 

“There’s a flower in there?”

 

“This _is_ a flower shop, lad,” chuckles Sawyer.

 

Branch leans forward, peering into the pot like a child ready for a birthday surprise.  

 

“I picked this one because it reminds me of you,” Sawyer whispers, then reaches in his hair for a hand sized water can and sprinkles just a small splash in the center.

 

The soil splits apart.

 

Spring green curls unfurl and reach and twist and sprawl. More, tinier, skinner greenish strands, as thin as hair unfold and ones under them wrap around the bigger ones, whilst greedily absorbing the water. Branch slips off his chair and takes a step forward. He reaches out, running a single finger along the sprout’s many limbs. It still wasn’t all that impressive, but it’s unequivocally alive.

 

“We haven’t give it an official name yet, but we’ve been calling it, Embrace,” Sawyer says softly. “It can survive for months without much water and needs little sunlight. If you want more vibrancy, just give it some sun. It lives off something else we realized after taking care of the first one. The results were spectacular. It’s no wonder why Charmy thought Embrace sounds best.” Sawyer pauses, then adds, “This’ll do you really good, I think.”

 

“Thank you,” Branch takes it from Sawyer’s hold, studying over its simplicity.  Sawyer makes it sound so special. “What will happen when it blooms?”

 

“You’ll see.”

 

“Fine,” Branch grumps. “How much do you want for it?”

 

Sawyer rocks back and forth on his heels, beaming mischievously. “Nothing for it, Branch ole boy. Just pay it forward.”

 

Branch blinks. “You’re sure? I feel like I’m cheating you.”

 

“Not at all!” Laughs Sawyer, brown eyes flickering. “It’ll do you real good,” he repeats happily. “So, shall I giftwrap it for you or will a ribbon do?”

 

Branch smirks with all the confidence of a peacock. “Let’s put it in a box for now. A plain ribbon, please?”

This must be perfect, absolutely perfect.

 

A singular opportunity like this doesn’t come every day in a troll’s life and Creek will be damned if this gift isn’t flawless. It’s meant to represent himself and all he will offer his beloved: endless security, guaranteed romance, and continuous nights filled with wanton, aggressive passion and his personal favorite, eternal beauty.  

 

“Tell me about these rings,” Creek asks, gesturing to the spread of finely cut and polished jewelry. “Are they made of real crystal or is it tampered glass? If you say crystal, I’ll find that hard to believe. They don’t carry the correct transparency.”

 

Hadley, the village’s most renowned and famously established jewelry, haltingly huffs, wounded. “Now see here,” the lilac skinned and yellow hair troll starts in a sharp protest, “these are top of the line celestial pellucid quartz crystal. If you don’t have the eye for quality, then—”

 

“Nothing gets past me, Hadley,” Creek coolly interrupts, unheeded to the offended trolls sharp tone, “and I’ll appreciate you to remember it.”

 

He must’ve said the right words in the best tone. Hadley has the dignity to bow his head submissively, nodding. “Of course, Mr. Creek. I don’t produce nothing short of perfection. As you should not expect to find anything less than or better elsewhere, sir.”

 

Creek rubs his chin and goes to inspect the other glass cases containing displays. He doesn’t bother with checking the price tags. Whatever the trade value, it won’t compare to the worth of his mate. And they deserve only the best.

 

He hums curiously upon reaching an array of jewelry placed in an intricate spiraling layout beneath a spotlight. These were interesting. None were solid colors. They were all either blotched, spiral or speckled with two or more contrasting colors. Some he would prefer to look at up close. The proprietor may be an expert, but Creek will have the final say regardless. 

 

Creek turns and gestures the jeweler to come open the case. He hurries over to unlock the glass lid and slides it away, reaching within to gingerly lift the long panel of stones for Creek’s observation. Up close, and now catching just the right amount of light, they’re dazzling. The stones all gleamed and sparkle like their shine could seduce the sun of its rays.

 

Creek is drawn to one such gem, its glimmer like a burly storm settled above crashing waves.

 

It’s splendid.

 

“What’s this one called?” he asks, touching one finger to the smooth surface. It feels as fine and fluid as it should be.

 

“Chrysocolla, a rare stone. It stands for new beginnings, healing, power and love.”

 

Creek’s expression brightens. “Then it’s perfect. I’ll take this one.”

 

“A wonderful choice!” Hadley’s mood improves greatly, likely due to this item’s overwhelming price and Creek’s equal lack of consideration about it. “And what band will you have it embedded?”

 

“Crystal,” smirks Creek. “My mate is entitled to the finest.”

 

“And you’ll only find such superior preeminence here, sir.”

 

Creek nods graciously. “Have them giftwrapped and delivered to my pod as soon as possible, Hadley.”

 

“Of course, sir. And may I be so bold to add?”

 

“Go on.”

 

Hadley spreads his hands above his wonderous collection. “All of these stones have special qualities. Once placed upon the finger of one’s true love, the stones all have unique reactions.”

 

Creek’s attention was fully captivated after hearing _‘special qualities.’_ “Such as?”

 

“Ah, that in lies the mystery, Creek. Nobody knows what to expect _._ It’s all based on the measure of your happiness and the depth of your love for one another. Once the romance between yourself and the other apexes, only then does the ring correspond and cast its extraordinary power.”

 

Something only between him and his darling? Creek is sold on the idea indeed. “It’d better be beyond the scoop of my expectations,” the purple troll firmly warns, and hands over the pay for the band and stone and steps out, feeling on top of the clouds.

 

Who would have known it’d finally come to past; He, Creek, the most eligible bachelor in all of Troll Village, has finally felt the tugs of yearning in his heart for his soul mate. He didn’t think it would ever come around, that fairytale sensation he’s only heard spoken of in stories and rumor.

 

Every troll comes about their zing differently. Some feel it buzz in the center of their chests, others feel the roots of their hair electrify. For Creek, it was unlike the sweetest nectar had landed on his tongue and pooled there, cool, thick and succulent. Day in and out, he was restless with want and a heightened disposition to seek out and claim his mate immediately.

 

It took days for the sensation to lessen and settle into a small fizzle and candied aftertaste that never completely vanishes.

 

Creek hated and loved the way his instincts awakened in his inner spirituality. His soul is purring at the prospect of linking up to his kismet. Once they’re joined, he’ll share all of his beliefs, teach his mate the ways of spirituality and thankfully, have an equal in everything, beauty, intelligence and talent. They’ll have the most amazing voice, be the most hypnotic dancer and be the charm of the village.

 

Naturally, of course.

 

Being the embodiment of perfection, it’s what will be expected.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. What Destiny Offers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some mild angst here. Brace yourselves. I don't have a whole lot of time to proofread some I'm sorry if there are more mistakes then usual. I hope it doesn't disrupt your reading too much. Please enjoy!

**What Destiny Offers**

 

The day is upon them now. Before the sun rises many trolls are already bustling within their pods, performing a plethora of grooming and tidying of their homes and themselves. New hair is woven into the outer shell of the pods to add a fresh, colorful sheen so the sun can properly show off the troll’s health. It goes without saying of course. A great many things will have to be done with their hair to guarantee their mate’s perfectly satisfied with whom they’re with. Just because the Destiny Bloom settles you with the right troll doesn’t mean the couple is automatically happy together.

There will have to be some encouragement for the wary ones, a demand to impress the outright unimpressed. Nobody wants to be set up with a troll who can’t equally support their portion of the relationship. Of course, once their martial positions are decided, things become easier in that department.

Creek finally finishes admiring himself from all angles in front of his trifold mirror before his eyes land on the front of himself. The sleeveless black blazer and regular orange V-neck button-up shirt heavily accentuated his natural colors. He’d done away with his wooly canary trousers for some smoke grey ripped jeans. He smiles broadly at his reflection. It suits to convince your mate right from the start that you’re a troll of impeccable taste and elegance. The jeans are an emblematic detail to show he has an edgier, less than proper side to himself. The medallion around his neck, made of a clean sterling silver and faceted with Alexandrite in the center, will be the first gift he gives to his beloved. It’s plain, unscratched surface is meant to be just that, simple. It’s his handsome or beautiful mate’s job to bring out it’s brilliance.

He’s sure they’ll love it. They’ll love him. They’ll love each other. It’s become his mantra, the power of their intense desire the distant melody of his dreams. Now that the time has come, his taste buds were flooding with a syrupy layer that can only be cured when he first kisses his mate. He has to chuckle at learning that the taste will never entirely vanish. It’s supposed to represent what his mate will taste like per kiss and that’s fine with Creek. It’s too delicious to get rid of anyway.

The last duty at hand is for his hair. Creek reaches up with both hands to undo the ribbon binding his braided hair and shakes it free. Then he turns so the sun shines on it. The effects are perfect; giving the length a natural stretch and the hints of a bumpy wave from middle to tip. Gorgeous. He’s simply too gorgeous for words.

His door receives two hard knocks and two softer ones. Creek twists in the mirror again, then pats at the back of his head when finding a strand out of place.

“I know you’re just bein’ a jerk, bro. C’mon, open up!”

Creek decides at the last minute that another accessory would be nice.

“Really, Creek?”

Then again, maybe that’ll be too much.

“Screw you, I’m comin’ in.”

Creek smirks when he hears the door jar and the shuffle of a languid stride across his plush haired carpet.

Flint appears in the mirror’s reflection, looking every bit as put off as a ruffled cat. “It’s too early to be a jerk, cousin. But then again, no one wears it better.”

“Is that any way to greet, family?”

“Oh, excuse me, lemme try again.” Flint steps to the side, out of view, knocks against the wall, then reappears, bowing so low at the weight, his thick plum colored hair taps the floor. “Oh Creek, my fellow rebel. The vanity glows around you as bright as any holy spirit.”

“Now who’s being the jerk here? And really Flint,” Creek abandons tidying his attire to look disapprovingly over Flint’s clothing. “What are you trying to do? Pass yourself off as a pauper?”

“Ha!” barks Flint. “Unlike you, my dear cousin, some of us don’t hafta’ be reminded of their sex appeal. Trust and believe, I’m hardly threatened by the competition. Any troll with a taste for the finer things, knows gettin’ with me is equivalent to strikin’ gold.” That doesn’t stop him from waltzing over to join his older cousin in the mirror and inspecting his civvies. He blinks, turns this way and that, then looks at Creek with a pout. “You’re a hater, pure and simple. There’s nothing wrong with how I look!”

Creek skeptically looks over his younger cousin with critical, hooded eyes. Although, the black leather vest was wiped clean, and the white-shirt with the design of a blue gecko and baggy ripped yellow pants is a neat ensemble, Creek would have chosen something less casual for Flint. They are both purple trolls, a shade rare among their people, with Flint being the most unique because his thick, towering mane is a dark raisin.

Creek’s tempted to make the other troll wear some of his clothes, lifting an eyebrow.

“Don’t even,” warns Flint, sharply flicking his wrist. “I hate your clothes. They’re too tight and give off too many hippie vibes.”

Creek shrugs. “You should reconsider it. Who knows. Some of my charisma might rub off on you.”

“That’ll depend on what I’m willin’ to lose. My overwhelming sex appeal? Will it be my flirtatious goatee? Or dare you think I would sacrifice my magnetic charm?”

“Oh please. You have as much charm as an earth worm.”

Flint stops flexing in the mirror to shoot Creek an unfriendly look. “I swear bro, you wear JERK like a merit badge. Anyway, will you hurry up? We’re gonna miss all the action. What’s the point of lookin’ handsome if you wind up settling for whatever’s left?”

Creek rolls his eyes. He does a few more touches to his hair, then nods satisfactory and bounds to follow behind the dark purple troll. “Rest assured, ole boy. The Destiny’s Bloom knows what I’m after.”

“I hope so,” pouts Flint. “I’ve been having this ringin’ in my ears for months. I’m beyond ready to know who’s supposed to be my mate. And I’d better be the dominant one. I dunno what I’ll do if I turn out to be sub. Talk about a wicked backlash for all the pranks I’ve done.”

“Too late for redemption now.”

“Eww, what we are mated together?”

Creek, pauses, thinks and chuckles. “Sad to say, I’ll be top in that relationship.”

“No way I’ll be the bitch in the relationship!”

“Of course, you would, ole boy. All you ever do is bitch.”

“Piss off,” muses Flint and sexily flips his banes from his eyes with a wink. “Don’t pretend you don’t want me. I’m as fine as can be!”

Creek laughs aloud as he leaps over the makeshift wooden ledge beneath his doorway with Flint hot on his trial, the pair eager and excited for the coming event.

“Stop fidgeting, Branch.”

“I look silly.”

“No, you look amazing.”

Poppy does a few final tugs and presses to Branch’s high collared forest green shirt and steps back, tapping her chin. “Straighten up!” she orders. He does with a bored sigh, looking off at the rays peeking through her window. The dark tan pants weren’t her first choice, but she couldn’t imagine anything else matching better. “You look amazing!” she finally compliments.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Branch scratches at the collar curving under his jawline. It’d never been his idea to come here. Poppy took it upon herself to fuss over his choice in garb because according to her, nobody wants to shack up with a destitute looking troll. Branch knew already he needs to look decent, but he wasn’t trying to aim for coming off as overly conceited. Humble works just fine for him. “Is all of this really necessary?”

“Yes, it’s not every day a troll feels the pull of love. You only get one shot to impress your mate. Don’t you think it’s right to show them you’re willing to look your best for their sake?”

“I guess.”

“Exactly.” Poppy grabs his hand, tugging until he goes to sit on a foot stool and she steps behind him with a wide tooth comb, running it from bottom to the top and sides. “Your hair’s so soft. You used the grapeseed oil I gave you the other day, didn’t you? I can smell it.”

grumbles indifferently. “No big deal.”

“If you say so,” she singsongs, humming a casual tune while working out the few tangles and rebellious strands on his head.

Branch sighs a gusty noise. “Poppy, would you put the brush down? I know how to do my own hair.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Why do you have to fuss over me so much?” Branch makes a frustrated sound, batting at her hands until she gives him room to stand. “I shouldn’t have to go through all this trouble for my mate. If they can’t accept me for who I am, then that’s their problem.”

Poppy crosses her eyes, chin up. “It’s not about them accepting you or not. A mate is supposed to be so enamored by your appearance, that the rest of the world mutes out and you’re all that can picture. I doubt you wanna run up on a slouchy looking troll, right? Good hair, unblemished skin, strong voice? First impressions matter because trust is the most important thing. This is the troll you’re going to spend the rest of your life with. You’re going to wanna know if they’ll make a good parent, right? For those sweet, adorable little trollets you’ll have running around your bunker? Oh!” she suddenly giggles hysterically. “Or whoever it is just might convince you to move into the village. Oh, I hope they do. We can go shopping and party for sure!”

Branch blanches. He really hopes they don’t. He prefers the solitude to a long life of loud, obnoxious, crazy festivals and hyper active loons.

He shakes his head. “I know I’m healthy, I’ll be able to provide for my mate. Have you seen my skin? I’ve lived in the woods for most of my life? Scars mean living it rough. At least they know I can hold my own in case a predator shows up.” He brightens a little. “Actually, I think I’ll make a good dominant.”

Poppy shrugs, grinning. “Personally, I don’t see it. You’ll make a better bottom.”

“What? No way! Have you met me?”

Before she can answer, a scratch sounds from the petal serving as her door. “Come in, Clay!” She calls. She mouths, ‘be nice’ to Branch in passing as she goes to welcome the younger troll in.

“TOP OF THE MORNING ALL!”

Branch groans, slapping a hand over his face. It’s sure to be grand annoying morning. If there is a troll to match Poppy’s enthusiasm iota per iota, it’s Clay. The spry young lilac troll is practically the embodiment of peace, love and happiness. Nothing on the planet can get him down. He’s so full of positivity and cheer, it’s hard to be a grump around him. But Branch has the emotion mastered to a tee, so he maintains his usual cynical demeanor when Clay performs a triple backflip into the bedroom, landing flawlessly on his feet.

All his bountiful white hair twirls all over and rises and glitters in its top knot. He turns, all smiles and beams even brighter upon seeing Branch standing in front of the mirror.

“Oh, hullo Branch. Fancy meeting you here.” He giggles behind his hands. “Who am I kidding? I’m glad you’re here. I rarely get to see you these days. How great is it that we’re both going through the same Bloom Cycle? Isn’t it grand? We’ll both get our mates today. I’m so excited, I can hardly stand it. I hope they love scrapbooking. Don’t you think they’ll love scrapbooking, Branch? I know I do!”

Branch chuckles against his will. “Whoever turns out to be your mate, I hope they have the patience to handle you.”

Clay laughs. “Branch, you’re such a kidder. I hope you find yourself a loving mate too. Someone to add some color in your life will be best, I think!”

“We’ll see.”

“Oh, just imagine it.” Clay skips over, taking Branch’s hands—much to the grey troll’s disdain because he can’t stand being touched—and waggles them happily. “Me with my dream troll and you with yours. I dare say it’ll be the best kind of medicine for your grumpy nature. I long to see you happy, Branch. In fact, if I turn out to be your mate, I’ll work my hardest to turn that frown upside down every single day of our lives!”

Branch pales significantly. _Oh dear, God!_

In the background, Poppy laughs wildly. He’ll throw a shoe at her later.

“OK, I’m ready, boys!” She’d disappeared while the pair had been in a chatter.

When she emerges, Branch blinks, dazed. She looks incredible. Poppy did away with her hair tie, choosing to let it flush out. Her banes are brushed to frame her heart shaped face. There’s no headband to keep them tame, but she loves how the look nonetheless. Her dress is a cream with silver gilts around the hem and the halter with swirls of glitter looping up the sides.

“Princess Poppy, oh, you’re going to turn heads for sure!” Clay gushes.

“So, will you. Loving the outfit, my man.”

Clay twirls on one toe, arms spread. He liked to think his outfit was perfect for the occasion. An open white vest with gold trimmings and a pair of black faded jeans. He has his banes swept to one side of his head so they curl over his cheek with just a few bits covering his eyes.

They both looked incredible. Their mates will be more than thrilled to have them.

Branch calmly turns to look at his reflection, touching his fingertips over his cheekbones and the rest of his face. It’s times like this he really hates his gray skin. It hides so much of who he really is inside. God, he hopes whoever his mate is can look past this stain. Won’t they know he has a ton to offer? He may not have the necessary happiness, but he’s still a good troll at heart.

“Oh Branch, I forgot to say your outfit makes you look dashing. Especially your butt!” says Clay and he goes over, to Branch’s horror, to loudly smack his behind. “It’s so soft and squishy!”

Branch stomps his foot, face ablaze. “My butt is not squishy!”

“If you say so, chum. I think that’s a good thing. More cushion for the pushing as they say.”

“What the what?”

Clay laughs and do does Poppy.

“Guys, guys, we need to get out of here. Everyone’s probably gathered at the meadow by now. We have to find a good spot before they’re all taken up!”

Branch can’t believe he’d nearly forgotten. He hurriedly, along with Clay, goes to fix and prim over his outfit and hair, making sure nothing is out of place. It goes against his better judgment, but he takes a bottle of one of Poppy’s perfumes and dashes a few drops in his hands. Then he smacks his cheeks, wrists and neck to make sure it’s all over.

But the smell is strong. . . and DEAR GOD, it’s full of glitter.

“Nooooo!” Branch panics, wiping frantically at his face. “No, no, no, no, no!”

“Branch, come on, we’re gonna be late!”

“Coming, coming!” After wiping his hands over his shirt, he discovers it too is ruined. Thankfully his face is free of the junk, but now he’s going to walk around looking like a disco reject.

Crap.

With a mournful glance at himself, Branch follows the other two trolls, hoping, wishing, praying that his life changes for the better.

The Flower Festival takes place in a meadow far from where the Troll Tree roots.  It used to be further away when the first Troll Tree resided in the center of Bergen Town, but now, destiny has made it so the journey there is hardly a tiresome journey.

The view of the Destiny’s Meadow is a sight unlike anything a young troll will ever see. For most of the year, the fields are barren and a lush green. The grass sparkles like a burning sea of liquid emerald. But near the end of summer, the last wading warmth of the season drags during September, it musters just enough strength to produce the most gorgeous blossom ever seen.

The Destiny’s Bloom; long stemmed beautifully two-toned flowers, hues blending from a dark fuchsia to pale azure coloring the petal’s tips. And said petals, when fully apex, will spread the way a hand stretches out to grasp a lover’s hand. It’s how a troll will come to take the blossom when they come to it, interlocking their fingers between the soft petals and entrusting their fate to the flower. Then, with the slightest tug up, the flower uproots and the troll flowers it’s wrinkled root to the flower it’s connected to where another troll has taken its mate and they walk up the hill until facing the start of a new beginning with their partner.

It’s the first time Branch has ever seen the meadow as it is now, a rich blanketing span of solid color as far as the eye can see. Wild flowers ensnared the sacred flower, from the rest so the Destiny’s Bloom stood out. A nervous fear and anticipation bubbles like soup in Branch’s belly. This is where his life will begin, where all his hopes and dreams for a new beginning will take place. Such an important event will embark him on a journey of no return.

He's ready.

He’s not ready.

Branch pulls fearfully at his collar, side glancing the clusters of trolls arriving in throes, all of them dressed to the nines and smelling divine. Their rainbow ambiance seems to match the untamed flourish of the wild flowers surrounding the meadow.

Poppy and Clay have already wandered off, wishing him luck. He wants to start at a separate area of the meadow and by now, he’s circled halfway through, eyes enraptured over the event itself. It’s as more populated with trolls finally prepared to mate and others who have either gone through the ritual or those wanting to witness what there is to expect. This year, there’s quite a few trolls who’ve felt the tugs of romance.

Branch halts in place, looking at his sides. There’s some space here with the meadow less than a foot away. The flowers smell sensual, like fresh rain. The flutter in his chest suddenly becomes more pronounce, warmer. Branch hugs himself at the beats of the feeling tickling at his insides. He nearly giggles, it feels so cozy. It becomes almost like a spider’s running all over his body and he does laugh, stumbling, rubbing at his sides and arms, wishing mentally that this craziness would stop.

He turns and slams into someone. He hears the ground thump the same time he hits it and knows the other troll fell too.

“My bad,” he says, rubbing his head. Whoever it was has a cranium made of iron. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

A snort. “That’s the understatement of the century. Clumsy oaf nearly wrinkled my shirt.”

Branch looks up, blinking. Creek glares back at him, eyes narrow and angry. He gets to his feet, dusting off dirt that isn’t there and pats at the hairs not out of place.

“Branch, since you’re here, I assume that means that fate knows how to be merciful.”

Branch scowls, and climbs to his feet as well. “I doubt that for the troll who winds up with you as a mate.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Creek casually demeans, upturning his nose. “I’m highly sought after. If you haven’t taken the time to notice, have a gander.” He tosses a thumb over his shoulder, smirking.

Branch sidesteps to see and there’s a huddle of trolls across the meadow standing parallel to where Creek is. Where he’s—wait, “This is my spot!”

Creek rolls his eyes. “I know it is, idiot. I chose it so neither of us has to worry about being accidentally matched up. Heavens forbids such a tragedy occurs,” he chuckles.

“Whatever.” Branch moves back into his place, shoving an elbow in Creek’s side. “Just stay out of my way.”

Creek pushes back. “You keep away from me with your horrid gray—”. He doesn’t have the chance to say more.

A chorus of tulip trumpets pierce the atmosphere with thunderous order. All attending trolls turn their attention to a platform mushroom. King Peppy carefully makes his way to the peak of the red mushroom’s cap, raising his hands high for everyone to cheer.

“Ladies and gentle trolls,” he begins boisterously, just as merry as the crowd, “we are gathered here for that special moment of greatest importance in a troll’s life: The great Flower Festival!” He announces, the resounding applause loud and restless. “It goes without saying that a troll’s most joyous occasion should be daily living, constant company and our plentiful parties. However, there is nothing that can compare to finally meeting that special troll who will forever and always hold a place in your heart that no other troll shall.”

Creek smirks proudly.

Branch sighs dreamily.

“So, without further ado, let’s kick off this celebration with a huge bang!” The trumpeters blare their horns with tenacious energy. “Trolls, get to your flowers!”

Creek immediately glances around, searching for the prettiest bloom. His eyes spot one in full flare with two petals folded beneath.  His mouth waters, tongue swelling with sugary sweetness. It almost appears to glow like a lure. That’s the one and he quickly, possessively snatches it up, yanking with all his might until the thick, prickly root is upheaved.

Branch himself studied the flowers, unsure which to grab. Each time he reached out, his chest grew heavy and he jerked away. When he grabs one, his mind and chest seem to constrict so powerfully, he loses breath. Then he glances to his right, spying a comely bloom seeming to offer it’s spread petals, not entirely matured. But the rightness of it couldn’t have been more obvious. It feels like it grew just for him. He nears it, feeling a lightness swirl and kick inside. When he grasps he, he releases a pent-up air he hadn’t known he was holding and pulls hard. The root comes out. 

“The time has come my beloved children,” calls the troll king, tapping his staff against the mushroom cap. “I wish you eternal happiness with your chosen and a love unlike anything you will ever experience.”

Creek’s smile grows, a tense throbbing throughout his body. _‘This is it. The moment of truth!’_

Branch cradles the flower to his chest, closing his eyes. _‘Please, please, don’t let me down.’_

Creek looks at the gray troll, snorting. “Say, Branch?”

The gray troll opens his eyes, cutting them towards his rival. “Yeah, what?”

“Best of luck, glittery chum.” Creek holds out his hand, eyebrows up, taunting.

The tone’s so condescending, Branch smacks it away. “I don’t need your stupid luck."

King Peppy’s voice booms. “BEGIN!”

The scene to follow is frantic and chaotic. Everyone with their flowers begins yanking vigorously, tearing up the meadow in rippling rows, dirt flying. Branch follows his root like it’s tangled in a hidden labyrinth. He’s lead between pairs, and groups, nearly colliding with other eager trolls. It’s mayhem, shouts are heard and laughter rings forth. Branch glances up in time to see a pair each one another, their eyes locked, their smiles whimsical. His heart skips a beat and he quickens his task.

Creek plows through the field, pushing past those around without looking. His determination eats at him violently, the desire to hurry devouring him whole. He wants his mate now. He needs his mate. His fingers were craving so badly to grab his beloved and pull them against him and leaving the most heated kiss. The noise surrounding him raises in octave as more and more couples find one another. Creek jerks his head up when he hears Flint’s outraged cry.

“Bloody Hell, you have to be kidding me?!” Flint stumbles backwards, flower still in his loose grip. “You?”

And Clay, it’s the first time Creek has ever seen the young troll not smiling. “Oh dear. . .”

Creek laughs—then he feels a strong tug coming from the opposite of his flower. His beloved’s close. He pulls as well, and feels the same enthusiasm returned from the other. They both start to follow the root still embedded in the front. Creek is lead uphill and he finds it befitting. No one else’s roots climbed the meadow’s mound. It seems fate wants the entire world to see his beloved mate. So be it then, he’s more than ready to show off this beautiful, amazing, delightfully, magnificent. . .

Branch finds the other end jerking in his palm. He smiles wildly, looping it around his arm. The root guides him to the only hill in the meadow where the root’s yanks become twice as strong. His mate’s up there. They’re waiting for him. With a skip and thrill in his stride, Branch finishes upheaving his root and follows it up to the tippy top, where his enchanted, caring, supportive, kind hearted, welcoming. . .

Creek pulls with all his might.

Branch uses his strength to finish pulling the rest of the root up and finds it’s completely above surface. His eyes see lavender hands.

Creek gazes at slate gray hands. Then his head snaps up.

Branch stares horrified. Creek stares back, equally thunderstruck.  

“Oh no . . .” Terrified, Branch looks at the root in his hand, then at the one tightly held in Creek’s.

They are connected.

They are together.

It’s the same flower.

“What is this?” Creek whispers and he pulls the root, but it’s Branch being yanked towards him, not some other troll. “Is this a bloody trick?!”

“I-I . . .” Branch is speechless, hand flying to his sweating brow. His voice brokenly whispers, “This is a mistake. It-it has to be. This can’t be right!”

“Too right, there!” Creek growls, throwing the root to the ground and stamping his foot over it. “There is no way in creation I’m mates to you!”

“You think I want this?” Branch shouts back, fired up and throws his end of the root to the ground. “I would rather die than be your mate. You don’t deserve me!”

Creek angry-faced, bears his teeth, stepping directly in Branch’s space. “It is _you_ who doesn’t deserve _me_!” He grabs Branch’s collar, shaking him senseless. “What’s the meaning of this outrage? Is this a joke? Some sick way to get your jollies off?”

“Let go of me!” Branch tears himself loose, shaking his head. “Are you crazy? This is the most momentous time in a troll’s life. Why on earth would I do something so cruel?”

“Because someone like you wouldn’t know what happiness is, you vile, loathsome, gray stain!”

Branch buckles back. That hit hard. A gray stain? He thinks he wants to be like this? He doesn’t get it. How could fate do this to him? What had he done to receive this punishment. “G-gray stain?”

“You heard me—” Creek’s cut off by a fist whipping across his face. He falls back on his rump, holding his nose, astounded. 

Branch’s chest heaves, eyes watery. “I didn’t ask for this, you self-centered jackass!” He turns on his heel, stomping down the hill.

Creek grazes his fingers beneath his nostrils. Colorful blood dribbles from his nose. He sneers, surging to his feet and shouts, “Don’t you worry. I will see to it that this travesty is annulled by tomorrow’s end, damn you!” He spins on his heel, storming away on the other side of the hill bypassing all the happy-go-lucky couples and happy energy filling the air.

None of it his. This isn’t the beautiful beginning he wanted.

As for Branch, he can’t get out of the meadow fast enough, racing through the tangle of trolls, covering his ears at the cheers and happy declarations, none of them for him. He wipes at his eyes when they blur.

This isn’t the happy beginning he wanted.

It’s a nightmare.  

 

 

    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Hugs Branch plushies close*


	3. What Destiny Argues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my favorite chapter so far. I love how they argue. It's just so, I dunno, entertaining. Or maybe that's my sadistic side. Anyway, please enjoy the read everybody. Please excuse any mistakes!

**What Destiny Argues**

 

Branch bites his bottom lip and eyes the packaged letter on the table in front of him anxiously.

He’s been avoiding going into the village—

Creek—

No, he’s been dodging every attempt Creek has made to contact him since the other day. They didn’t need to see each other right away, of course, but the end of the ceremony is near, and Branch only has five more days to decide on what he wants to do.

Naturally, he would rather dance butt naked over an open bon fire then be tied for life to that self-centered, pompous jerk.

Branch knows the letter contacts a summoning to the royal court pod to possibly have their mating annulled and the opportunity to participate in next year’s Flower Festival. It’s just frowned upon and considered taboo for a pair of destined trolls to try and separate after being connected by the bloom.

It’s one of the reasons why Branch has been reluctant to open the documents. The problem is that, emotionally, he feels torn, strangely nervous to fight against this. Deep down, something’s screaming at him not to sever the flower’s decision. However, the rest of him demands to be coupled with someone else.

Creek isn’t the sort of troll who’ll cherish their mate. He wants to prance around bragging and showing them off like a trophy. Only the most beautiful, loveliest troll deserves to be on his arm in Creek’s eyes. So, where does that leave Branch? Creek hasn’t missed a week in expressing how much he loathes the grey of Branch’s skin. As if the very shade is too offensive to be acknowledged as a color at all.

Now, destiny has cruelly and hilariously coupled the two of them together because why? It has to be the most diabolical prank this side of creation. No way they’ll survive being around each other.

Branch takes a deep breath and finally reaches out to open the packaged envelop carefully.

As to be expected, there’s a neat stack of files tied by a red ribbon and in the front of said stack is a smaller envelop housing a letter. Branch’s name is scribbled across the front in delicate cursive. He slides his finger through the seal and pulls the letter free.

_Due to fortuitous circumstances, we are now, in fact, engaged to one another. We’ve both expressed a mutual, yet unharmonious, disagreement to these terms. Therefore, I am requesting your presence at the Court of Ministry Mushroom, Marital Chamber at approximately eight o’clock Wednesday morning before his highness, King Peppy, and Judge Rootsberg so that this matter will be settled._

_~Creek._

That’s tomorrow. Branch crushes the paper in his fist, growling low. That impossible jerk. Creek makes it sound like an unfortunate incident where someone’s died. Only a moron would want to be together with this clown.

Branch goes to snatch a sheet of paper from one of his notebooks and quickly scratches a reply across it in jerked, slanted format. The letter’s folded and he doesn’t bother to seal it in an envelope. Branch doesn’t care enough about the letter’s condition. So long as it reaches it’s intended destination and serves its purpose, that’s it.

He climbs to the trapdoor and calls out for a sugar fuzz fly. It comes, wearing a dun lap pack strapped to it’s backside. Branch slides the letter inside and kindly pats the fly’s head. “Creek,” he says to it and sends it off and watches it fly until the little blue insect is as small as his reply to the jerk.

_I’ll be there._

_~Branch._

“And then the fool goes and clocks me a solid right. Arg, my poor nose still aches something fierce. I have the right mind to march right up to him and give him a stern talking to.”

“Oh yeah, that’ll teach him,” Flint sarcastically grumps from where he’s haphazardly slouched over Creek’s couch. “By all means Creek, don’t stop there. I think he’s entitled to a timeout too.”

“Must you be so contemptuous?” snaps Creek. “I’m trying to echo my grievances here!”

Flint, from his upside-down expression, looks to contemplate behaving and at his winded sigh, he flips over on his stomach and flicks his wrist. “Fine, I’m listening. You were goin’ on about him knockin’ your teeth loose and stomping away in a huff?”

It’s times like this that Creek really questions why he ever bothers seeking Flint’s council about any of his problems. He rarely offers sufficient advice and what little wisdom he shares doesn’t provide positive results. Perhaps it’s his company Creek craves right now. Goodness knows he can’t stand being at home with the events of the other day still so fresh and raw in his head.

That had been the most embarrassing, monumentally devastating day of his entire life. Nothing in existence can compare.

To be mated to Branch? The dullest, most cynical, negative based troll in the universe. There’s nothing remotely special about him. He’s a smart mouth, independent, loner and would sooner resort to violence before using a mature method to reach a decision. And Creek is expected to be mated to that fool? Nonsense. They’d kill each other as soon as look at each other.

Creek scowls and dashes a hand through his hair, then sharply turns as he reaches the end of his parlor room. It used to be his finely decorated parlor room. Most of the furniture has been pushed far to the wall to allow him space to pace up and down without having to adjust his stride. This room has walls painted in relaxing shades of tranquil blue and soothing yellow. He’s able to calm his restless nerves or pace off his agitation since meditating over the matter wasn’t possible. His body’s far too tense and antsy with rage to easily release it.

None of this was supposed to happen. He should be impressing his newfound, perfect mate right now; showering them in affectionate and whispering promises of a beautiful future together. Instead, he’s home, keeping company with his disobliging cousin and his head is full of countless scenarios and the thought of the other trolls possibly laughing behind his back. This situation couldn’t be worse than it already is.

“It isn’t all that terrible, mate,” Flint chuffs with a shrug. “It could’ve been someone worse.”

“There’s absolutely no one on this planet worse then Branch!” Creek retorts heatedly, unable to fathom why this dumb cousin can’t see reason. “Have you not met the troll? He’s undeniably the horror and embarrassment of our whole race.”

“Some could say the same about you, ole boy.” Flint snorts, changing positions on the couch so his legs hang off the arm.

Creek, having seen enough of his furniture being abused, goes to slap Flint’s legs straight and returns to his pacing. “I should have none better than to confide in you. You should act like you care instead of being the idiot you’re renowned for.”

Flint is unfazed. “You’ll never learn to flatter another, huh? I wish him all the joy of you.”

“You’re more of a sickly romantic then me. Yet, I can’t seem to wring your traditional sympathies on the basis of being emotionally catapulted into the most unnatural union?”  

Flint snorts, amused, and reaches up to sweep his banes off his eyes. “Though knowin’ this fun fact about me, you realize you bark up the wrong tree. Most of the troll pop is alright with the outcome of their bloom’s choice.” He surveys Creek up and down, then adds, “You’re the only one, _the only one_ , who’s openly protested against this union and may I state, in a less than favorable manner since you know we trolls frown upon anyone who despises their mate for no apparent reason.”

“Any and all protestations made about his character are true. Branch is as adamant about dissolving this as I am!”

“Is he? I only see you pacing and pullin’ at your hair.” 

Annoyed, Creek tries to switch tacks on his argument. “This has happened in the past right? Though they are few, I know there have been cases where a paired couple has successfully challenged the court and won.”

“Absolutely. Lolli and Jasper, Wendy and Zinnia, Royce and Basillea, all of them took a moral stance against the corrupt manipulation of what they thought was a barbarous way to force mates into a marital bind.”

“Ah-ha!” Creep smiles triumphantly. “And the results?”

“All of them were victorious, yes,” Flint smirks and continues with wry irony, “but in the end, all of them sought each other and became mates anyway.” He shrugs. “It’s the natural order of things whether you’re willing to accept them as they are or not.”

“Confound it!” Creek shrieks tossing his hands in the air. “Is there no one else who’s against this—this travesty? My life is over!”

“Everyone, by and large, rather like things as they’ve turned out. Though I confess to feelin’ crazy disappointed that my mate turned out to be that overly, hyper-active pipsqueak, Clay. Goodness knows, I’m in for it. That happy go lucky freak has the wackiest prima donna complex.”

“And you don’t want to fight against it?”

“No,” Flint sighs ruefully, tossing his head back against the couch’s cushions. “And that’s only because I know that the lil’ freak might be just what I need to calm down. I may be unfortunate to have him in this lifetime, but hopefully I’m blessed with a better choice in the next. I want to make sure I leave this world with good karma.”

“Good or not, you’ll still have to deal with it,” Creek points out archly, somehow his tone and posture earning a chuckle from Flint. “I, for one, intend to see this through. We’re due before the judge and king tomorrow. Hopefully we’ll find a resolution to this madness.”

Flint quiets a while, then can’t help asking, “And in the high chance they don’t allow you to nullify the union?”

Creek halts in his pacing, gazing worriedly at the floor. His shoulders slump, losing their haughty edge.

It’s the first time Flint can tell how much this has weighed down on his cousin.

“Then. . . then I’ll deal with it. . .” But Creek isn’t foolish enough to believe that is possible at all. This is Branch after all. No one wears the title of _‘Stubborn Troll’_ better.

Though some would say he can be equally prideful.

Creek begins his preparations confident that this whole fiasco will be cleared up and while a pulse of concern now pulses in the back of his mind, he holds firm to the belief that he lives in a just, fair universe, and that there is no feasible way that fate would continue playing devil’s advocate. Matching Creek with Branch is an enormous contradiction. There’s no way it’ll stand.

He feels his muscles loosen and his eyes light as he strolls into the judge’s chamber. Tilting his head up, he nods graciously to King Peppy settled in the back corner, his only job being to play as witness and a neutral party. The judge, Rootsberg, an aged troll with stalk white hair, pallor green skin and deep, patient hazel eyes, sits behind his large mahogany desk.

Creek comes forward holding out his hand. “Judge Rootsberg, King Peppy, a pleasure it is to meet you this morning.”

“I wish it were under better circumstances,” is how the judge greets him, a sternness clear in his tone and the hard glint in his eyes reflecting how much he dislikes having to play medium for such cases.

Creek can’t help that now, can he?

“Who will be your witness?”

“I choose not to have one.”

The judge nods. “Very well. Will Branch be arriving soon?”

Creek sits behind the table situated before the judge’s desk, pointedly not looking at the empty chair next to him. “He’ll show.” Though he does check the wall clock where it hangs just short of the mushroom’s rising arch. Ten till the strike of eight. It’s still a little early. In the meantime, Creek goes about scanning over his share of paperwork, ensuring everything’s in order. He straightens his red tie and smooths any wrinkles from his white tailored shirt and black slacks.

Then the door opens behind him, and he turns expecting to see Branch and a witness of his choosing.

But it’s only Branch, dressed in plain brown trousers, an olive-green button up and his paperwork tucked under his armpit. At least he has the decency to dress for the occasion and comb that rat’s nest he calls hair. Creek’s nostrils flare a fraction at the scent of something subtle and sweet floating off Branch’s body as he sails past to shake the judge’s hand, mumbling a greeting to everyone in the room. He glances once at Creek to meet his gaze and it’s the only acknowledgement Branch gives before taking his seat. Once his paperwork is placed before him, Branch notably scoots his chair an extra inch away from Creek and the lavender troll almost gives into the urge to copy his gesture.

“Branch, will you have a witness here to parlay with us this morning?”

“No sir,” Branch quietly replies, looking a little to the side. “It’s just me.”

The judge takes note of the choices made then beckons for King Peppy to take the chair next to him and together, they study over the young trolls before them.

“I want you both to understand that in my thirty-five years on the bench that I’ve never conducted a private session between parties who actually want to dissolve their union,” Rootsberg muses, shaking his head. “On what basis do you stand before me making this request?”

Creek stands to speak first. “I would like to speak on behave of both of us that—”

“You don’t _speak_ for me,” Branch softly chimes. “I’m capable of arguing for myself, thank you.”

Creek fixes a powerfully heated glare at the top of Branch’s since the grey troll has his face focused straight ahead. His light blue eyes shone like polished ice. But even as he composes himself, the pure loathing Creek feels stirs the way a storm roars at a distance.

“I apologize, your honor. Apparently, we’ll both be representing ourselves.” Creek says in a voice that could have frozen salt water. He clears his throat again. “King Peppy and Your Honor, on the morning of the Flower Festival, Branch and myself were adjoined by the same bloom. While tradition stands firm in trolls having to remain connected upon plucking, I feel that, morally speaking, that it’s a testimony of stance against the rights of trolls to choose their mate. And given myself and Mr. Branch’s hostile history, I am here to ask that we receive permission to have this union legally abolished so that I may have the opportunity to seek a better choice.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Creek has the gratification of seeing the grey troll visibly bristle, fists clenching on the table top. He retakes his seat, having said just the opening to his side of the argument.

Branch takes that as his cue to rise, papers in hand and is asked to speak up when he begins talking, mildly rising his voice as he reads off what’s in front of him. “King Peppy, Judge Rootsberg, the state of my life up until two days ago has been a pleasant, content existence. I’ve had no need for extravagant expenses or a glamorous lifestyle since any and all contributions would benefit me little. It’s how I am.”

He pauses here, Creek is sure for some silly dramatical effect and side-glances the idiot just to see how far Branch will go with his theatrics. But Branch swallows like he’s held something in his cheeks for hours and it refuses to go down. His fingers tremble, he fidgets, and his voice goes back to its low murmuring and thickness.

“I am sure you are aware of the circumstances surrounding my past,” Branch glances up to see the judge patiently nod, his eyes warm and encouraging, “and thus my critical need to trust anyone who becomes a permanent part of my life. Therefore, given my adverse relationship with Mr. Creek, I don’t foresee our union being anything more than an unnecessary burden for me. I’m here to request that this union be legally abolished so that I may also seek a more suitable mate.”

Creek’s fingers dug through the table with an audible screech.

Branch retakes his seat, still refusing to look in his direction.

Rootsberg taps a lone finger on the desktop, lips grimly stretched. “It can be said that a joining of this kind is exactly what’s required to end such quarrels. Am I to understand that because you two bare a strong dislike for the other that that’s grounds to negate a tradition that goes back two hundred and forty-six years? That’s mighty presumptuous of you.”

“There’s also the matter of our ethical views,” Creek hastily adds in. “He’s a carnivore, an eater of flesh. I’m vegetarian; specifically, I live on a very strict macrobiotic diet.”

Branch shifts again. “Well, to also state, our religious views are contradictory. He thinks there’s some higher power. I have faith in what actually exists.”

Rootsberg leans back a bit, weaving his fingers together, his expression stoic. “Both oppositions are negotiable in pod-holds. Hardly something worthy of being detrimental to your arrangement. We have a great many couples whom practice inimical denominations. Those of the non-religious and strongest beliefs have compromised and managed to live liberally. Some have even reformed. As for your effort to convince me that something as ridiculous as your food preference being a mandatory requisite in your relationship,” the judge shakes his head, “you’d be better off trying to persuade me to read Dickens over Decadents.”

The silence to follow the judge’s words very quickly turned the sizable room into a hand sized tense space. Not that Creek isn’t semi-ready to counter whatever the judge used to contradict his plea. Flint made good last night on helping Creek rehearse for what needed to be said. It’s just that his throat feels clogged and his skin suddenly warm and clammy.

But Creek won’t back down. Not even under those scrutinizing eyes of the king and judge. He moistens his lips and straightens. “I cannot believe there doesn’t exist a marginal measure of compassion in you to accommodate the greatest charity for your fellow troll.”

“Mr. Creek,” the judge sighs, rising a hand up to rub his temple, “I’ve compassion for a great many things, but at the current time, I’m dedicating a bit of it towards massaging this headache erected by two rebellious trolls Hell bent on pursuing this—this audacious endeavor.”

“This is my happiness at stake!”

“So, you believe. Fate, especially pertaining to romance, rarely enacts a circumstance that doesn’t lead to a beneficial conclusion.”

 “But it doesn’t mean that it’s one-hundred percent guaranteed.”

“No,” the judge murmurs. “That is true enough.”

Creek uplifts his chin, achieving new levels of haughtiness. He ignores the way Branch rolls his eyes—something Creek vows to snap at him for later. “Statures exist to protect trolls who feel cheated out of their right to choose a mate. You’re familiar with the Right-Hand to Heart Law, yes?”

Rootsberg’s eyebrows rise high to his hairline and stay there. Then he says, “Yes, I am. That particular law hasn’t been invoked for some years. Most in Troll Village have personally redefined the policy, considering it a direct assault to the overall structure of the Flower Festival since it encourages just about anyone to change partners after being chosen.”

“I’m aware,” says Creek. “Zinnia and Wendy, Lolli and Jasper, Royce and Basillea, were all cases where the law was invoked. None were happy in their relationships. Even after the entire six-month courtship had run its course, a medium wasn’t found. They thought to change their lives and sought it vigorously until achieving a fair judgment.”

Branch lets out a huffing breath. There’s no telling what for, so Creek chooses to ignore it. Or would have. He feels confident he has this whole ordeal under control, but the fool chooses now of all times to speak up and Creek feels his mouth hang open over what he says.

“I’ll go ahead and beat the judge to it,” Branch begins, laying his cheek on the back of his hand. “All three cases won in court, sure, but in the end, they eventually came to their senses and wound up together anyway, but at their own pace and without the pressure of some dumb tradition. It was love, pure and simple.”

Judge Rootsberg leans forward, folding one hand on top of the other, eyes going half mast and the tiniest smirk pulling at his lips. Creek wants to so much to kick it away as much as he wants to snap Branch’s chair leg.

“Are you with me or against me?” Creek hisses through gritted, fists clenched as he leans towards the grey troll. “When trying to win an argument, one normally presents the evidence necessary to prove fact!”

Branch finally looks at him and his expression is painted bored and impassive. “But you end up looking ignorant if your case isn’t thoroughly researched. You’re not stupid, Creek. Neither is the judge. Presenting only half of the information won’t make the rest disappear.”

“I’ll have you know that I wasn’t completely done presenting my argument. You just chose to butt in as you tend to do whenever it comes to anything relating to me!”

“Get real!” Branch bolts to his feet. “I avoid you like the plague. You’re the one who goes out of his way to remind me on a weekly basis how much of a stain I am in society!”

Creek shoots out of his chair too. “Because no troll should welcome the day terrorizing trollings and trolls about an impending doom that will never show. Do you get a kick out of scaring them half to death with your wild accusations?”

“I want to protect them. It will happen, Creek. You’re just too blinded by your own stupid, perfect world to realize that danger exists!”

“Those days are behind us, Branch. The sooner you learn to accept the good life for what it is, the better off everyone will be!”

“It doesn’t matter what I say or do because you see me as being anything less than a troll!”

“Then start behaving like one and I might acknowledge you for the effort!”

“You never give the me chance!”

Their words hang in the air between them where they stand, nose-to-nose, both breathing hard, flushed and as the seconds stretched, a little startled by everything that was said.

“I would like to remind both parties to exercise courtesy while in my chamber. Do not raise your voices again and sit down.”

At his chilly, hard demand, Creek and Branch share one lasting stare down before retaking their seats and noisily scoot their chairs to as far as the end of the table’s corners. Seeing as there’s no sense in pretending to be civil anymore, there’s no point in acting like they can be cordial.

“If you’ll pardon the intrusion,” King Peppy finally pipes up sarcastically, “I don’t understand why, if you two feel that you’re being coerced by us instead of fate into this union, that you don’t seek to annul it on the grounds of non-consummation?”

Creek’s ears wiggle happily. “Oh, yes sir. No such thing has occurred, nor will it ever!”

The judge sighs, smoothing a hand over his white hair. “That only stands if both parties can prove to having been sexually active. The Celibacy of Choice Decree from _Katie and River_ _vs Court_ , states, if either of you practices celibacy—no sexual activity for a year or more— or is a virgin, which will have to be medically verified, that the required consummation holds no effect. Consummation is a choice, not a right.”

Creek smirks cockily. “Schedule the appointment as soon as possible. I’ll gladly consent to the examination.”

“Very well. And you Mr. Branch?”

Creek feels himself relax into a slight slump in his chair. Finally, a solution to this mess. Here he’d thought there’d be no way out of this and King Peppy, the old senile sweetheart, has found the perfect excuse. All they have to do is prove that they have sex regularly and that they do not want to consummate their mate at all and bam, it’s all settled.

Creek looks over to find Branch’s face stricken of color. His smile vanishes, and worry fills him. Why on earth would Branch look concerned? This is the easiest thing to do.

“I . . .” Branch gulps, fiddling his fingers. “I can’t consent.”

“What!” Creek shrieks so loud, everyone winches in sympathy for their ears. “Branch you have to!”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“. . . Because.” Branch swallows again, shutting his eyes tight. “I’m, uh, I’m. . . a virgin.” 

Creeks leans away in such a steep far right he nearly topples his chair over. His eyes widen to the size of acorns. “No,” he drags in disbelief. “No, you can’t be.” Then he blinks, thinks long hard and sags extremely low in his chair. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, what am I saying? You thrive in the woodlands as a bloody recluse. Of course, you’re a virgin!”

“Shut up,” Branch grumbles and looks towards the wall, folding his arms. “Not everybody can be a garden tool. . . The way everybody's turned you like a doorknob, your junk probably looks like shriveled bacon." 

“I beg your pardon?!”

Rootsberg gives the loudest throat clearing in the universe. "Now, now, that's quite enough of that talk. Honestly." 

“I can’t consent to a procedure that has a strange troll touching me intimately,” Branch goes to address the judge and king. “That’s. . . that’s something I want to save for my mate. I've cherish myself all these years for that reason.”

“So be it.” Rootsberg documents some more notes, the likes of which Creek could careless about at this point. His life was gradually slipping though the fingers of misfortune. “In my opinion, you’re both rather idiots, impossibly stubborn and overly prideful.” Branch blushes, Creek just blinks in a daze. “Yet, I see qualities that the other lacks or the other fulfills. You simply refuse to look beyond your differences to realize that this may be what you both need.”

Creek briefly wonders if he’s being punished from a past life. If the judge expects some drastic change in opinion just by shoving them into each other’s company, he’s sadly mistaken. Murder will be committed within a fortnight.

“Before judgment is passed, I need to know your stations.”

That’s the only saving grace for Creek in this forsaken relationship. “I had the bigger bloom. I’m designated dominate.” He lazily jerks a thumb at the grey troll. “He’s submissive.”

“Unfortunately,” grumbles Branch, pocketing his hands. He sighs, whispering low, “I definitely got the short end of the stick.”

The judge stands and so does King Peppy, which has the two young trolls rising as well, still avoiding eye contact. “I hereby command you to live in humble connubial. The court has the authority, further, to compel you to attempt to dwell together peaceably, in regular relations. What shall I register as your primary shared residence?”

“My bunker!” Branch gets in first, dazed by this horrid turn of events. He may be submissive but there is no way he’s giving up his haven.

“Fine with me,” Creek looks him over. “Gives me more reason to explore every inch of that place to see what needs to be changed to compensate my stay there.”

“His pod, we’ll live in his pod!” Branch immediately backpaddles after realizing his mistake.

Creek grins. Some small victories are still a win. “That suits me just fine. At least we’ll be dead in the center of Troll Village, surrounded by all the celebrations, singing, dancing and bustling of daily living. Jolly good fun.”

Branch shoots him the dirtiest glare. Then he cranes his head back, covering his face with both hands. What a nightmare.

Judge Rootsberg indulges in rolling his eyes at the pair and shakes his head for the third or fourth time. He’s lost count. “I wish you both a happy life. You’re dismissed.”

Branch places his documents on the desk before leaving with great haste. He doesn’t look back, breaking through the door in a rigid stride. Creek, meanwhile, takes his time gathering his things. When he goes to place his stack of papers on top of Branch’s, the judge’s hand comes to land heavily on his shoulder.

“Try not to feel as though fate is conspiring to ensure you unhappiness, Mr. Creek,” the judge says in a fatherly-like tone. “Sometimes what we don’t want is exactly what we need to progress into a better troll.”

Creek lifts his chin high. “There’s nothing wrong with how I am now.”  

“You may not think so,” Rootsberg’s expression hardens, eyes hard as permafrost. “But I can’t see a troll in dire need of a character change than you.”

Creek chuckles bitterly. “It’s a common opinion for anyone who goes off what they see on the surface,” he replies wearily, the angry tension leaving his shoulders. “Excuse me.” He steps away and heads for the exit, the words of the judge easing through one ear and out the other.

The same as when others have been so quick to assume he’s a heartless, inconsiderate, snob. Not that it matters what they think. He’s only cared about his own opinion and right now, in his own humble opinion, his life is truly and utterly over.

  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rather like Judge Rootsberg lol.


	4. When Destiny Begins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the late update. No worries. I'm back on track now. Please enjoy the update and excuse any mistakes!

**When Destiny Begins**

The judge’s order allows them a full week to arrange all accommodations and other responsibilities before the start of their living conditions changed.

Creek spent two of those days meditating above his pod in the patch of sunlight that always shines through his upper level bedroom. This time of morning, he finds the most peace and harmony to filter through his thoughts, purge all negativity and carnal thinking. For two days, it’s taken so many concentrated hours of focusing on purifying the tainted rage blackening his aura.

Waves of it surrounds him, closing in and coursing in circular patterns in his mind’s eye. It has roared steadily enough to cause him lingering migraines, aching deep in his temple. The pains became so prominent Creek cut his sessions to simple stretching, and releasing all spiritual energy through yoga.

His limbs eventually lost strength after a full day’s work out.

But his exercises do not heal his troubled spirit.

The fact remains that no matter how much he tries to channel his anger towards other means of distraction, Branch has made himself at home in Creek’s head and he can’t get rid of the ingrate. It isn’t fair for Creek to be forced to bear the humiliation of being mated to the dullest, lowliest, most cynically, uncivilized troll to ever exist.

They have nothing in common. No shared hobbies or interests. There’s no telling what the troll’s living habits are like. Does he even clean up after himself or manage some semblance of order? Goodness knows, his hygienic practice could use some fine tuning. No troll should ever show themselves in public looking less than presentable. Branch doesn’t care about what he looks like. His hair is always styled in that stiff, knotted stalk, dust cloaks his skin and the list goes on.

By the sixth day, Creek found himself slouching heavily into his couch, hands pressed into his face. The realization of his entire life changing has finally come to a head. It’d snuck up on him so abruptly, the dinner he’d spent hours preparing was loss to the floor after slapping it away. It zapped his energy bone dry, and left him worn threadbare with defeat.

Branch is his mate. Forever. There is nothing he can do to change it. Creek is stuck with the one troll he’s hated more than bergens.

Creek shut his eyes to war off the frustrated tears threatening to fall. Mother Destiny’s forsaken him. As far as he knows, he’s done no troll any wrong. All he wanted was to have someone equal to him, his better half, someone as beautiful, as charming and romantic and who possessed a voice worthy of angels.

Branch has none of those traits.

None.

Creek had gone to bed that night with those thoughts haunting him. He shuddered in his thoughts pulled against the sadness and rage dragging him down. Sleep evaded him. He felt the tears and shoved them away, as they prickled at the edge of his eyelids.

He will never, ever shed a tear because of that boorish fiend. He’s not worth it.

 

It has been a bunch of aimless, dispirited wandering for Branch since the order. He hasn’t tried to pack anything and couldn’t bring himself to put in the effort.

It sunk in like blocks of ice, how perfectly destroyed his world has become. There’s no happiness in his future. The judge had a hand in guaranteeing that, but Branch doesn’t blame him. He blames fate itself for wrecking his future. He’s had his share of pretty rotten days, but there will never be anything that arises to the hurt and disappointment hacking at the bit of hope he held out on for years.

Branch spent his final day alone working as hard as his body could withstand, gathering herbs, planting seeds in their place and harvesting the rest of his garden to store away for the fall. The last week of summer is upon them and he will need the food for later. The last chore on the agenda is scouring the woodlands for prey. The ice box has a corner stash of frozen shriek grubs, chirpy chirps and harmony bees.

Branch leans away from checking it to wonder if he can stretch the rations another couple of weeks. He really should prepare for his move into Creek’s pod. Not that he intends to stay there permanently. Just for the mandatory four days out of the week so he spends over fifty percent of his time there and the rest safely secure in his Fear Bunker.

Deciding on what to take is the hardest part. Everywhere he touched, looked or smelled, seems important. His jars of sweat provisions should be taken along. There’s no telling if Creek has enough food and water available to sustain them both.

Of course, he won’t have anything Branch will like. And books? No, that idiot is too full of himself to look at anything without a mirror. Branch will need his herbal books, classification manuals, sketch pads, drawing pencils—there’s so much to pack!

Branch collapses in the middle of the floor after finally settling on what he will need to survive his stay with Creek. There’s more than enough supplies and gear to keep him occupied. He may live under the idiot’s roof, but they don’t have to interact. Branch will ignore him the days he’s there and leave.

It shouldn’t be hard, right?

Then why does Branch feel a foreboding sense of dread eating at his nerves?

Or is it fear? That, more than anything, seems the liable term.

He’s scared.

His life’s been snatched out of his hands and placed in the hands of his most hated enemy.

Branch is expected to depend on Creek since he had the larger bloom. He’s the dominant of their relationship, the one responsible for their security, providing for their needs, overall responsibility, be the head of the pod, finalize all decisions, be strong, and above all else, be the submissive’s emotional support.

Creek doesn’t possess any of those qualities. Nothing about him screams strong, courageous, supportive or a leader. For most of Branch’s life, he’s spent his days being dependent only on himself. Now, he must pass the reins on to someone who hates his guts?

Branch crumbles as the thoughts filter through his brain like an enormous rock wedging through a paper-thin gap. It’s painful and so terrifying. This won’t work. It never will. Creek doesn’t care about him and Branch knows he won’t try to make this work. . .

And that’s what scares Branch the most. . . He doesn’t think he can handle being ridiculed day in and day out for his shortcomings. He knows he isn’t perfect. He knows he’s grey and doesn’t sing or dance or have fun like the rest of the trolls. His differences kept him away from the village and he was fine with being an outcast.

The solitude gave him peace of mind.

But that’s gone now.

Creek won’t try to understand Branch. Superficial gain is all he’s after.

“It isn’t fair.” Branch squeezes his eyes tight against the harsh burn of tears carving wet paths down his cheeks as he lays on the floor and curls up. He’s never felt so empty until this moment. All because of that jerk, Creek.

Branch hurried wipes at his eyes and pushes himself off the floor to go clean himself up. It isn’t worth crying over. Creek isn’t worth crying over.

By the time Branch has all he can carry stuffed in his duffle bag, it’s midmorning and some of the trolls are already leaving behind their own homes to move in with their dominant others. The rest of the herd will procrastinate until late afternoon to finish doing their last-minute arrangements.

The Market Meadow is shut down until tomorrow, nearly baron of every soul.

The first trolls Branch see all wave as he walks through and he courteously nods or waves his walking stick in their direction. The energy’s so positive and cheery, Branch can feel it’s effects electrifying his hair. He’s happy those of his generation were able to find their mates. It’s a joyous occasion and while his situation isn’t ideal, he can still be glad the rest of them are happy with their choices.

“Guy, please, will you stop? We-we’re in public.”

“Mmm, I can’t help myself.”

Branch has climbed halfway up the Troll Tree, bypassing couples of every variety. He hadn’t known that Guy Diamond was among the group of trolls to go through the ritual, giving how he’s older than Branch and Creek. He should have gone through the ceremony a couple of years ago.

“Come on, Anton, live a little.”

“But, but someone will see.”

But he’s clearly more than satisfied with his choice judging by the unshameful displays of affections he’s giving to Anton; kissing up his arm, square on the cheek and pulling the green gem troll against his chest to fondle. Branch leaps to the neighboring tree limb to avoid seeing more of Guy’s raunchy behavior.

Branch’s mapped out the tree a dozen times. He’s never been to Creek’s pod. Purple trolls tend to have oblong pods catered to the shape of their hair and often have analogous colored exteriors. That means Creek’s will stand out from the rest. He’s always had a flare for the theatrics.

And upon landing on the fourth branch, Branch braces his hand against the tree’s trunk, spying an enormous pod dangling off a thick limb, attached by five clumps of dried hair. The colors have faded since to match the shade of the tree.

He inches a step to the side to have a better gander of the setup. The sunlight reflects off a crimson-violet base, gliding to the deepest shade of plum Branch doesn’t believe have a name and higher to where a touch of turquoise decorates the final third of the pod with perfectly curled swirls.

It isn’t as loud as Branch presumed. Thank goodness for small miracles. He climbs up to the branch’s level and walks his way along the path until reaching the edge and lowers himself in front of the door. Taking a deep breath, Branch prepares himself for his first day and gives three firm knocks.

Branch patiently hangs adrift in the breeze, and takes to swinging a smidge side to side until he hears the telling thumps of footsteps approaching the door. He blows out whatever apprehension gathered in his stomach and the building tension bunching his muscles.

When Creek opens the door, he’s dressed in a teal and purple fur trimmed robe, holding a steaming mug of what smells like mint tea. “Oh, you’re here already,” he drearily remarks, sipping his drink. “Come in,” he sighs, stepping to the side. “I’ve already prepared your lodging.”  

Branch steps through the door and suffers a bit of shock.

He had expected to enter a quaint living room covered with snobby portraits of Creek that’d look like they were whispering insults as he went by. Instead, Branch comes into a large, warmly colored living space made of lovely hair woven furniture, plush yellow and white carpeting and star-lit sparkles trimming the high arching walls and ceilings. Paintings of distant landscapes and family photos hang on the walls framed in silver and gold. There’s more room in the living room then Branch’s whole vegetable store.

The outside’s very misleading. Branch feels shrunken down to an inch standing in the center of this pod. And he’s only entered the living room. What else is Creek accommodating in here?

“Are you finish gawking?” Creek’s voice pitches an octave lower then what’s considered polite. Branch looks to see him standing at the start of the hall, propped on the wall, impatiently tapping his tea cup. “There’s a tour to be had. I’ll only show you where everything is once, so you’ll do well to pay attention.” He shoves off the wall and starts down the hall.

Branch rolls his eyes and follows. If he can keep his comments to himself, they may stand a chance to survive this stupid setup. “You don’t have to,” he grumbles anyway. “Show me where I’m bunkin’ and I’ll get out of your hair. I can find everything else on my own.”

Creek stops walking and fixes Branch with an icy stare over his shoulder. “I’d rather not have you aimlessly wandering _my_ pod in a stupor when it’s much easier my way.”

Branch mentally counts back from ten to one. “I won’t need to. I already saw the kitchen, and given what I could make of the layout, I’ll likely have my own bathroom, right?”

A perplexed silence stills the air. Creek narrows his eyes. “Yes,” he eventually answers. “Your room does.”

“Then the rest of the tour is irrelevant.” Branch uplifts his chin. “I don’t need to know where the extra rooms are or know of their uses and I don’t care where your bedroom is. S’ not like I’m welcome to explore beyond my basic living quarters anyway.”

“Not the point—”

“My bedroom, Creek, is all I care to know,” Branch smoothing cuts through and folds his arms, tapping his foot.

A dull flush climbs onto Creek’s face, darkening it a dark shade of plum. His grip on the teacup’s handle trembles and after visibly taking several deep breaths.

“Fine. I suppose I can see it from your perspective,” he says between clenched teeth and gestures ahead to a door stationed on the right. “ _There_ is where you’ll stay. I would ask if you might need additional things, but I doubt you’ll take more than what’s provided since my property is too gaudy for your bland tastes. But please, make yourself at home, nonetheless.” Creek briskly stalks past without another word.

Branch opens his mouth for a moment. Then he shuts it and swallows back the smart retort burning on the tip of his tongue. He chooses to roll his eyes as Creek disappears into the living room and grumbles phrases like _‘stubborn troll’,_ _‘moronic dolt’,_ and _‘ungrateful ingrate’_.

Branch stifles the urge to snap out just how he feels about the idiot, but reframes. Creek isn’t worth the energy. Branch can focus more on settling in anyway. He heads to his bedroom door, and it is an impressive oak material, beautifully crafted carvings of ivy leaves and a cherry tree.

If he thought the door remarkable enough, it doesn’t hold a candle to his bedroom. It takes his breath away. There appears to be three rooms linked to be a singular unit; the bathroom is to the right with a tub is worried to contemplate the size of and an empty room to the left for whatever purpose Branch can use. Not that he will really need it. The drapery is a pale green and the carpet’s a complimenting smoke grey, spinning out into a lighter slate and pale blue towards the edge. A tall pair of cupboards sat by the wall next to the window and as his perspective shifts, Branch finds the _bed_. It’s large, round, curves and dips in all the right places with fluffy navy blue and white pillows stacked on sleek satin sheets.

But above all else, literally, it doesn’t touch the floor. It’s hanging by strong strands of braided hair dyed the same blue as the sheets and pillows. The walls have the designs of an everlasting spring afternoon, dandelions caught in a petrified sail in the air and feathers traveling along the way.

There’s a lamp to provide light at night and a bolted lantern in each space. Branch hugs his torso, turning in place to take everything in. There’s so much room, plenty of space to move around in. And it’s all bright and colorful. It’s pleasantly unsettling.  What would one troll need with so much luxury? Branch snorts at the question. This is Creek. Fancy living is part of his charm. He needs the glamor to add to his appeal. As if he doesn’t have so much going for him already.

Branch wouldn’t be surprised if the idiot is just accommodating for his lack of other attributes.

Branch snickers to himself. Wouldn’t that be something? The one thing Creek doesn’t have, he makes up for it by having so much junk.

Although, said junk is of high quality, possibly rivaling Poppy and King Peppy’s royal pods. It’s still too much for one troll to have, Branch thinks and lets his pack drop awkwardly to the floor. It makes a thump that sounds too loud and heavy. He winces looking around the room once more, and shakes his head. He’s not sure what he will do with himself in this place. He can appreciate and tolerate everything here, but it isn’t him. The pampering, luxurious, and lavishing, it’s all graceful and elegant.

It’s going to be a great order of change to adjust to. But he will suit himself to a routine and follow through to it. He may not be happy with the outcome of his mating, but things don’t have to be miserable for him. Branch can and will make it work. His plan is still set and can work for him.

So, first order of things, he needs to unpack, and he does, spending the next couple of hours fixing the room to suit his tastes and since the room is his, he does change where some of the furniture is situated and places a few of his personal knick knacks around. All his books, he decides to tuck away in the night stand and his clothes are neatly folded in the cupboards.

Branch isn’t sure when, but sometime between stacking his books and color coordinating his socks, he’d fallen asleep in the spare space room. A knock jabs on the door twice. He jumps up and drowsily stumbles to the door.

“Yeah,” he calls through.

“Food.”

Branch blinks. “Huh?”

“I said food! In the kitchen. For heaven’s sake, the nitwit,” Creek’s voice snarks as his footsteps carry him away.

Creek cooked? Branch wonders if that’s something he should be worried about. Wasn’t that one of the arguments he used in the judge’s chamber? Something about neither of them sharing a similar diet. There’s no telling what Creek eats. Branch isn’t familiar with a macrobiotic diet, but it doesn’t sound appetizing.

Curiosity wins over rational consideration. That, has his stomach decides to loudly remind Branch that it hasn’t had any food since last night. Branch shrugs and leaves the room. He smells the air and the scent of something is there, he just doesn’t know what. The sizzle and crackle of food cooking is undeniable.

Branch senses take him to the kitchen just as Creek’s placing a plate of food on the dinner table for his side and then the other is set for Branch. The grey troll eyes the food suspiciously, looking up to meet Creek’s scrutinizing gaze.

“What’s the catch?” Branch can’t help asking.

Creek scoffs. “Don’t be stupid.”

“It’s an honest question. Why cook food for me?”

Creek pulls back his chair and sits. “Despite your overwhelmingly exaggerated opinion of me, I am a troll of fine upbringing. I will not mistreat you simply because we are at odds.”

“Oh.” Branch’s ears droop, embarrassed. He clears his throat and takes his seat. “Thank you.”

“Indeed,” Creek returns and cuts into his meal.

Branch stares at it, unsure of which end to start chewing on. There’s white sauce and red speckled sauce drizzled over some shriveled up brown stalks of a plant. He smells good. His stomach certainly thinks so. But he isn’t trying to eat something guaranteed to give him the runs.

“I . . . um.”

Creek sighs. “What is it?”

Branch moistens his bottom lip. “What’s in this? What is it?” he motions to his plate.

Creek tips his head back, eyes closing, then opening. “Roasted oyster mushrooms in white miso and red peppercorn cream.”

Well then. Branch pushes the plate away. “I can’t eat it.”

“And why not?”

Branch narrows his eyes at Creek’s sharp tone. “Because I’m allergic to peppercorn.”

Creek stares across the table as if Branch sprouted extra body parts. Then he gives his head a wild shake and pats his fingers to his temple. “Am I to understand that—” Creek releases a harsh chuckle. “You’re allergic to peppercorn,” he deadpans. “Or more like you don’t want to eat this because it isn’t something you like?”

“I’m allergic to peppercorn,” Branch slowly repeats. “It has nothing to do with—”

“You honestly expect me to believe—

“—I don’t give a damn what you believe—”

“—that you are have allergies when I’ve known you for years and not once have I ever heard that—excuse you!”

Branch surges to his feet and swiftly marches down the hall.

“Branch, don’t you walk away from me when I’m talking to you!”

Branch goes into his room and slams the door. His hair snaps the lock into place before he stomps to his bed and flops on the mattress. He is not going to argue with Creek. That pompous jerk won’t get the satisfaction.

Creek’s done nothing, but try to stir drama and Branch won’t get baited into it. Branch has cooperated and kept to himself for most of the day. Now, the one-time Branch has no choice, but to nitpick about, Creek raises a fuss.

Somewhere in the front room, Branch hears glass shatter against the wall. He nuzzles into his pillows and tosses the blanket over his face. It hasn’t been a full day and he’s beginning to second guess whether he has the patience to see this through.

He’s glad he’s more tired than hungry anyway.

Some sleep sounds good right now.

 

 

 


	5. When Destiny Rears Confusion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LOVE THIS CHAPTER! *Squeals* I want to mention why, but you'll have to read to see why. Please excuse any mistakes and enjoy the chapter!

**When Destiny Rears Confusion**

 

Branch sighs, scratching his head. His journal. He knew he’d forgotten something. After rummaging through all his belongings and doing a thorough inventory, Branch discovered he was missing his journal, bathrobe and herbal skin tonic. His grey skin is so sensitive to sunlight that he’s had to create dozens of different kinds of ointments to help with dryness and sunburns.

The bathrobe isn’t that big of a deal, but he doesn’t want to walk around in his regular clothes all the time.

And his journal, that’s an item Branch simply cannot live without.

But leaving already is against tradition. A submissive is required to stay indoors for three full days to, well, rest and settle in, to create an atmosphere of comfort for themselves. He’s done that so far, hasn’t he? Branch knows he won’t leave his bedroom except for eating and going home. He’s pretty much set out everything in his bedroom the way he wants it.

So, will the third day be necessary?

Creek hasn’t said another word to him since the other day. Will he care? Doubtful.

Branch paces up and down the length of the room, chewing his bottom lip. Even if things didn’t turn out the way he wants, he’s against breaking tradition. But he really needs those things. Would it hurt for him to leave for a short while? Creek probably won’t notice.

The weather could help with that.

Branch edges to the spare room’s window, and as expected, the rain already began to percuss the glass with light smacks. This will serve as his escape route then. Branch nods to himself and hurries to find his knap sack. He pauses in adjusting his straps to gaze around the dimly lit room.

Maybe. . . it wouldn’t hurt to leave a note. Just in the weird cosmic chance that Creek does come knocking, he’ll know that Branch didn’t run away. He ambles into the spare room to search for a notepad. When he finds one, he hastily scribbles a message and places it on the pillow.

**_Gone out for supplies._ **

**_Be back soon._ **

**_~Branch_ **

Branch reads over it, his gut suddenly twisting with hesitance. It doesn’t feel right to leave. But he has things he knows Creek won’t go get for him. It won’t hurt to do it himself.

Branch hurries back to the window. He unlatches the hook and pushes it open, slipping out and hangs off the edge.

Creek won’t mind if he’s gone. He may even appreciate Branch giving him the privacy.

And it’s with that tiny bit of reasoning that Branch slips off the window ledge and falls into the misty shadows below. . .

Creek stares moodily out the window at the specks of rainfall. Two whole days have gone by. The first he expected to be rough. The next, he predicted would be a duel effort between him and Branch to avoid each other entirely. They have, of course, and the quietness in his pod is a welcome one.

Creek has stayed holed up in his bedroom for most of the day, meditating and pacing and brooding and thinking.

He drains his glass flute of its sparkling stout berry wine and left his bedroom twice to refill it. Climbing down the stairs brings him directly in front of Branch’s room each time. Creek would stare at it as if he could will the door to vanish, so he can see what the grey troll was up to in there. Creek often heard small bangs and some furniture swishing along the floor. But above all, just the quiet of a troll who is no doubt feeling just as conflicted if not more.

Then Creek will retrieve his sparkling wine and return to his room.

Creek often uses his alcove for thinking purposes, when his faith in things are questioned and the only cure to his stormy thoughts would be gazing out into the world and partake in nature’s splendors.

He had reconstructed his alcove three months after the urges to mate surfaced.

It would have been on this spot, on the eve of the winter solstice, he would spend his evening with his mate and they’d bask in the merriment and glow of each other’s auras. The alcove itself stretched long enough to harbor five trolls. Perhaps a bit much, but Creek wants there to be enough space to roll and laugh, and in those times where silence is preferred, to cuddle.

The rain is depressing him, smoothing his aura into a tampered spread of boredom and misery. Suddenly the melodica dripple doesn’t sooth him as it used too.

He needs air. Creek could use a trip to the Market Meadow. He’s been putting off shopping for a couple of weeks. He needs rice, some leeks, and soy beans for dinner. And, Creek sighs, he should do the honorable thing and see if Branch might need something as well. Not that Creek expects Branch to stomach asking him for anything anyway. It’s like the thought of Creek catering to him repulses the grey troll. Which suits Creek just fine. He hates being obligated to do anything for the bugger anyway. 

Creek polishes off the last dripple of his of wine before strolling out of his bedroom and heads downstairs. He raises a hand to knock and mentally berates himself for being reluctant. What does he have to be concerned over? If Branch is still mad? If anyone should be upset, it’s Creek.

He gives two firm knocks and waits.

No answer comes. Annoyed at the lack of response, Creek knocks three more times. “Branch, are you awake?” He should be. It’s scarcely early evening. “Branch?” Still nothing. Creek resists the urge to stamp his foot. “Branch, see here, don’t you think we’re both too old for silent treatments? I’m here to ask if you might need something from the store.”

Not a word. Creek clenches his fist. If there’s anything on earth that irks him to no end, it’s being ignored. “Branch, I’m coming in. You better be decent. . . for both our sakes,” he disdainfully adds and tries the door. The knob turns, much to Creek’s surprise, and he enters, searching over the bedroom.

Well then, Branch certainly didn’t waste time getting himself established. The room hardly resembles what it had been.  The furniture has been moved. It looks more cluttered, though not as disorderly and messy as Creek assumed it would. There are loads of books pressed into every corner of the room, spare stitched quilts, and a few other miscellaneous items sprucely placed here and there.

On the nightstand, Creek sees a small hand size frame reclining against the lamp. He flicks the lights on, tilting his head. It’s a picture of someone. Curiosity propels him to go to it and he plucks it to study over. He doesn’t remember seeing her before; an elderly dark purple troll with limely green hair and just as green lips. In her arms, she’s holding a tiny blue trolling.

Creek narrows his eyes. Is this Branch?

Creek quickly flattens the picture on the stand after realizing he’s snooping. He doesn’t care enough to investigate the grey troll’s past. “Branch!” he calls out again and again. Creek checks the bathroom, the spare room and even under the bed.

Branch isn’t here. Then where is he? Somewhere else in the pod?

He thinks to inspect the rest of the home until his eyes land on a sheet of paper laid on a pillow. Creek snatches it, scanning the message and crumbles it between his hands.

“Gone out for supplies. . . Be back soon?” Creek reads it thrice more before crushing it between his hands.

Branch left? And didn’t think to tell him? That idiot! He knows better. The submissive troll doesn’t leave for the first three days, doesn’t he remember how these things work?

Creek shakes his head. If he didn’t have a reason to leave home, he certainly does now. Having to go find Branch like some runaway. It’s ridiculous. But luckily Creek needn’t search far. There’s nowhere else Branch will go except to his old home. And as soon as Creek gets there he intends to give Branch an earful.

Creek goes to his hall closet for his raincoat, boats and umbrella and prepares to leave.

He pauses at the front door, thinking, then angrily huffs and goes to retrieve a second raincoat.

Just in case the moron didn’t think to get one for himself.

 

The downpour came as fierce as a waterfall. By the time Branch could work his trapdoor open, he was soaked through and through, hair a sodden ruin down his backside. Good thing he always keeps a steady supply of buckets on hand on the top level for such an occasion and he puts them to use by squeezing all the water into each pale. He won’t drink it, but it’ll be good for cleaning.

Arriving home shouldn’t have relieved him as much as it does, but Branch nearly weeps upon coming back inside and nearly kisses the ground.

Home Sweet Home. And it’s just as organized and spotless as he left it.

Remembering to get his belongings become a secondary priority. He wants to savor being back in his own space just a while longer and goes to pedaling through every chamber and storage unit. Nothing’s change, everything’s clean.

The food’s a welcome sight. He hasn’t eaten more than the few snacks he brought along. Having access to some real food tempts him into fixing an easy-to-cook meal, and before long, he’s created a hot drink smelling of several flowers, some buttered toast and cream to spear all over the round red and blue berries. The berries are sweeter then the fleeting tastes in his drink with a lingering tartness from the cream.

He begins to alternate between chewing the toast and popping berries in his mouth while reading through a novel on the medicinal uses of Aloe Vera he documented on several years ago. The pages have weathered, and the words have marginally faded, but it’s a pleasant read to reminisce over his discovery of the plant as a kid.

Then the chill from being wet finally works its way to the bone and he decides a bath is in order. The warm water feels amazing on his body, soaking deep in his hair. It’s been a while since he could enjoy a proper shower. Nobody’s worked out their own natural pluming quite the same way he has and granted, the device is a tad unconventional, but it gets the job done.

There are two separate delivery conveys where the fluids pour from two main applications; the town lake and rainwater whenever the tank it fills reaches an adequate level. The heat source comes from a ventilation device that manipulates the temperature to his liking with just several sharp tugs of the rope dangling behind his head.  

Branch finishes scrubbing away the last speck of dirt off his legs and feet and was so occupied with turning the knobs and fishing around for a towel, he never noticed it seemed to appear out of midair. And he’s sure he doesn’t have any towel hooks. . .

Is someone down here?

Branch rolls his eyes. Poppy. Nobody else would rudely invade his home. He snaps the towel around himself and snatches back the curtain.

“Poppy do you mind not—Oh God, Creek it’s you!” He shrieks when he comes face to face with a lethal purple glare. Branch hastily pats around the shower stall for his robe and pulls it inside to tug on. “What are you doing here?” he snaps.

“That’s an answer best owned to me!” Creek calls out. “I can’t believe you would come all of this way just to take a bloody shower!”

Branch steps out, scowling. “How dumb does that sound to you? What’d be the point when I have access to one in my room?” He walks out with a heated Creek trailing close behind.

“Gee, shall I name off all the possible reasons? You don’t like my pod, don’t care for my food—”

Branch abruptly stops and spins. “Is it so hard to believe that I have preferences? Not everyone’s so willing to accept your way of living just because you’re _‘The Amazing Creek’_ ” he air quotes and continues stalking down the hall. “But riddle me this, Oh Dashing One, what brings you to my humble abode? What’s the matter? You suddenly realized you can’t live without me?”

Creek barks a short laugh. “Don’t flatter yourself, ole boy.”

“Hey, you tracked me down, not the other way around.” Branch steps into his bedroom, pulling on the stringy light switch in passing and goes to sit on a cushioned seat in front of a tall rectangular mirror and dresser. He grabs a large detangling brush and begins the grueling task of running it through his hair.

“Only because you would be foolhardy enough to risk your life going through that—that monsoon currently raging out there,” Creek continues after discarding his wet clothing on the floor. He paces up and down the chamber, hands clamped behind his back, complaining aloud. “Has it ever occurred to you how it might look if the others were to have seen you venturing outside? It hasn’t been three days. You’re supposed to be at home settling in!”

“I’m already settle in.”

“You should have stayed indoors anyway. If not for the sake of tradition, then at the very least to avoid this storm. Honestly, I will never figure you out!”

“Don’t believe I asked that favor of you.”

Branch says nothing more to that because he doesn’t care enough, and it hurts trying to wrangle out the dozens of knots in his hair. One of the greatest, most vexing trials of being him is not having the skillset to tame his wild mane. It’s so much easier to brush it up and not care that the center of it tends to mat up and stiffen. Not that he doesn’t take the time to care for his hair, but more from not being as skilled in haircare. He never bothered to try.

So long as it functions, Branch is alright with it.

“. . .and we are going back right this minute!”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Branch murmurs after suffering through Creek’s long-winded lecture about his misconduct and reckless behavior. He drags the comb down and winches as a large ball of hair is pulled free.

He sees Creek openly jerk back as if struck in the face. “Must you make it look so painful?”

Branch sighs as another clump is caught in the gaps of his brush. He pulls it from the teeth and tosses it in the waste bin. “What’s it matter to you? It’s my hair.”

“But you’re my responsibility now and that means making sure you properly carry yourself the way a troll should.”

Branch coldly eyes the purple troll through the mirror. “I’m your mate, Creek, not some pet you’ve been randomly saddled with. And for the record, I don’t care what anyone thinks of me. That’s just you and your inability to deal with your own insecurities.”

Creek gawks. “I’ll have you know that I’ve endeavored to be the kind of troll others can look to for guidance on social standing and modesty.”

“That’s a laugh coming from someone with an ego too big to house.” 

“Between the two of us,” Creek gestures angrily between them, “I’d do some reconfiguring on who really has the bigger ego here.” His piece of usual unwanted advice receives a flat look. “What on earth possessed you to come way out here in the first place?”

Branch absently shrugs. “I needed supplies.”

“For?”

A rough sigh. “Some personal things, Creek. Sheesh. I’m entitled to that much.”

“Then why didn’t you ask me to get them for you?”

“Gee, I dunno, to avoid your typical negative approach to everything I need and do?”

Dark purple eyes lit with a radical anger for an instant and suddenly Creek is striding fast towards Branch, urging the grey troll to shoot up defensively.

“Whether you want to accept this travesty of an engagement isn’t up to you,” Creek begins, voice deathly chilled. “I am the dominant partner and you neglecting to warn me of your premediated avenues makes your intentions to be difficult, abundantly clear. And I won’t stand for it.” The last six words are roughly punctuated with well-aimed finger jabs in Branch’s chest. 

“The same can be said about you,” Branch retorts scathingly. “I make one small remark about being allergic to freakin’ peppercorn and you go off the deep end assuming I’m trying to sabotage an already jacked up relationship!”

“A relationship we may never have, but we can stand to attempt to be civil to one another. You arrived in my pod with your mind already set on being an inconvenience!”

Branch steps up to him, outraged. “I was trying to stay out of yourhair by establishing ahead of time where I will stay to myself. How can you consider that as being complicated? I don’t make it my life’s mission to make your life a living Hell, Creek. Unlike you, who has gone out of his way every single day to bother me!”

“Because you’re always crying bergen at the sniff of danger!”

“Here we go again, back at square one about me raising a ruckus about bergens because that’s the only reason you have to really hate me.”

“Among other things!”

“Right,” snorts Branch, “and they’re likely to be just as rational.” He’s tired all over again from just being in Creek’s presence. Their arguments can be draining. He doesn’t have the energy to go through another round, knowing there will be more to deal with when he goes back to Creek’s pod. “Lemme finish with my hair and we can head back, alright?”   

He doesn’t wait for an answer, instead, going to retake his seat in front of the mirror and starts where he left off.

For a few long minutes the only sound breaking the silence was the sound of Branch’s brush sliding along his hair and the padding of Creek’s footsteps on the flat ground. Branch wishes Creek would go wait in another part of the bunker. Hearing him softly stride from one end to the other, somehow, makes Branch more aware of Creek’s presence. It’s unnerving and eats a bit at Branch’s stomach.

The longer the silence continues the more uncomfortable Branch becomes. His pride won’t allow him to come out and say anything else, however. That would practically be relenting.

His arm develops an ache in his tricep. Brushing his hair shouldn’t be this freaking hard.  Cursing under his breath, Branch slams his brush on the dresser and starts to frantically scrub at his hair with his bare hands so to keep his hands occupied and his mind from wondering what that dumb purple troll is up to behind him.

Some water leaks into his ears and drives him insane. He hates water getting in his ears and proceeds to shake his entire head with such ferocity his entire upper body twists with the motion. Droplets of water scatter in every direction, and his now—even messier hair whips wildly in the air, slapping painfully against his cheeks and shoulders.

Behind him, Creek growls warningly. “Must you persist in shaking yourself off like a cuddle pup?”

Branch turns to look at the purple troll through a curtain of black tangles as Creek’s wiping the back of his hand over his cheek where water struck him.

The grey troll glares and replies with automatic churlishness, “Nobody told you to stand so close. You can go wait in the living room or better yet, go back to your pod. I don’t need you hanging around if all you’re gonna do is complain!” As a matter of fact, why was he standing so close? And maybe, just maybe, Branch should reconsider his tone. Just as he’s well known for having quite the temper, Creek’s isn’t one to be trifled with either.

The violent stomping is Branch’s first cue. He turns again to see Creek coming towards him and Branch reflexively tenses his body in preparation for a fight—one that doesn’t come. Instead of strangling him, Creek harshly presses his hands into Branch’s shoulders until he sits and bends forward to grab the brush with one hand while the other goes into his own for his wooden comb. Besides, a grab at his face to straighten his stance and some rough maneuvering of his body, Branch isn’t harm.

He’s confused. Even more so when a handful of his hair is grabbed and tugged and pulled into long strands. Speechless and bewildered, Branch can only watch as his head is jerked back with the pressure and his hair tenderly tended to while his mind raced with a mountain of _‘what the what’s’._

Voice tight with quenched anger, Creek doesn’t leave him guessing long. “If you haven’t the equanimity to properly groom yourself the way all adult trolls should know how, be grateful I’m lowering myself long enough to show you how it’s done.”

Stressing every emphasized word with a sharper-than-necessary drag through his hair, the purple troll collects all the sodden strands and goes about sectioning large portions with the grace and expertise of a beautician. A sizable fold of hair flips to the side, combed through and turns silky.

A sizable fold of hair flips to the side, combed through and silky. “You start at the end, you see, gently press the comb in here, and carefully scratch along until the tangles straighten out.”

Branch would say something, knows he probably should to break the weirdness bubbling in his belly from feeling Creek’s fingers massage his scalp, but words fail him. He’s too stunned at the notion that Creek is doing his hair because. . . because that’s what _loving_ mates normally do for one another.

“Oils, oils, oils,” Creek absently murmurs, looking around, “you do have those on hand, yes?”

Warmth spreads over Branch’s cheeks when Creek’s eyes coolly lock on his face in the mirror. “Um, yeah.” Branch sifts through a side compartment in his dresser and pulls back with lavender, rosemary and lemon oils.

“Alright, where was I?” Creek pours a palmful of the oils and works it in the sections he combed through.

This, this entire ordeal becomes too much for Branch to stay quiet on. “Why are you doing this?” he grumbles, ignoring Creek’s sharp look.

“Because you won’t do it,” says Creek. “You can stand to take care of yourself every now and again. What would it hurt to pamper yourself? You certainly won’t lose ground with society if you took one day out of the week to spoil yourself.”

“Nobody pays attention.”

“They will now.”

“Says who?”

“Me, of course.”

Branch swallows back a smart remark. But a different kind of comment comes out against his will. “I’m not the most. . . handsome troll around.”

“No, that title is reserved for yours truly.” When Branch sneers at him, Creek lightly tugs his hair. His own comes to cradle Branch’s hairtips and holds them up to continue his work.  “But you’re far from ugly.” He eventually says after a long pause. “You don’t physically fit the criteria of an ugly troll. Your attitude can use some adjusting though.”

“You’re one to talk.”

“Whatever.” Some tucking here and laying there. Then, at last, Creek steps back making a thinking noise with his tongue. “I can’t work miracles,” he softly murmurs, patting at different sides of Branch’s hair. “But it’ll do.”

Branch stares at his reflection like he can’t recognize the troll looking back at him. He’s never seen his hair look so glossy and clean, almost like it belongs to someone else. He touches it, peeling away a small strip and leafs it between his. The texture feels different too, fine as silk, smooth as satin. Creek considers this mediocre work?

_Creek._

Branch finds the purple troll about to leave.

“I was going to come back,” Branch says without thinking. Creek wordlessly stalls by the door. “I forgot my journal and my bathrobe. I needed my skin tonic too. My skin’s sensitive to sunlight.”

A cranky silence follows, then. “The journal I can understand. It’s sentimental. Your bathrobe, no. You can have one of my spare ones. And your skin tonic, is it medically prescribed?”

“No.”

Creek nods. “Then you’ll need to tell me about it too. I can get it—”

“I can get it myself.”

Creek looks over his shoulder. “So can I, Branch. It won’t kill you to let yourself be cared for. Even if we both can’t stand it.” He walks out.

Branch nibbles his bottom lip, shaking his head. “I don’t know how,” he whispers at his reflection and gazes up at his freshly combed hair.

He doesn’t feel happy about it. He feels like he owes Creek now. It’s always been that way for him. If someone does Branch a favor, he has to return the courtesy, or it’ll eat him alive. Someone like Creek can’t understand that. But right now, Branch feels as though he’s being the troublesome one and incredibly, there’s a nagging little sensation called guilt punching at his stomach.

It is just as he stands to get ready to dress himself when a knock sounds off behind him.

“Here.”

Branch hears and sees Creek entering wearing his raincoat and boots, hair erected into a wide mushroom-hood. He’s handing over a folded blue raincoat and yellow boots. Branch study them over before gingerly taking the offering. Creek curtly nods before turning to leave again.

Branch licks his lips, then softly conveys, “Thank you, Creek.”

Those three words pull him to a halt. Creek turns around, mouth working. “You’re. . . welcome.” Then he goes back where he came.

This feels different. . . Branch hugs the material to his chest, eyes closing tight. He isn’t sure he likes this change. This—this steals away the routine and plans he had set for the rest of his life. A dull cordial existence and nothing more.

Now? Creek’s doing this, and Branch would feel comfortable knowing it’s because the purple troll has his own gain in doing so. But it doesn’t feel like it.

Branch isn’t sure he’s ready to accept that him and Creek may be able to create a peaceful relationship.

Because that’ll mean there’s a chance for something and Branch refuses to believe that that _something_ can ever be real. It’s better assuming he has nothing to look forward to.

It’s only when he comes to terms with that frame of mind that he puts on fresh clothes and collects the items he came for before heading out to leave for Creek’s pod.

Creek’s waiting for him by the platform, impatiently tapping his foot, dark purple eyes aloof and indifferent. Seeing that expression saves Branch from further doubt. He can deal with handling a hateful Creek. . .

. . . not a caring one.


	6. What Destiny Stirs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK everybody, I do sincerely apologize for the late update. I can't believe it's been a while. Anyway, here is a nice long and very, very eventful chapter for you. Also, a bit of information to share. I was given permission by iFordi aka gluggs aka starfunkles and ink.pencil aka Ginger to utilize their OC name Apollo. I DO NOT OWN HIM in any sense of the world. If you would like to know what he looks like, visit starfunkles profile on tumblr to see what he looks like. They have given me free liberty to manipulate his character how I see befitting this storyline. Thank you to both of you and I truly hope, I wrote him to your liking. 
> 
> Everyone sit back, please read, enjoy and excuse any mistakes. Thank you!

**What Destiny Stirs**

**Here is what he looks like.[Apollo: Warning must be 18 or older to view. You have been warned.](https://www.tumblr.com/search/Apollo+Trolls)**

It had been ten silent days before one of them made the first move.

Branch had been in the middle of crushing nuts and seeds in his mortar when he heard footsteps creaking from the stairs in front of his door. He stills and quietly listened for further noise.

A moment or two passed by. The footsteps stalled before his door. Branch swallows audibly, unsure of what it meant that Creek would be standing outside. Then a sheet of paper slips beneath the door and Branch pounces on it.

_‘Going to Meadow Shops. Need anything?’_

Branch’s fingers teased the edge of the paper with small wonder, as if the words were written in a foreign language he could still translate. There can’t be any hidden agendas for just picking something up from the store, right? Even if Branch could go get it himself, he has other duties to do today. Most of the traps lain around the village haven’t been checked since last month, some of his gardens need preening and he could use more feverfews for Mr. Braeburns skin tonic and chamomile to mix in his own tea.

Branch nearly smacks his face. Winter will be here before they all know it. Last year, he hadn’t had enough echinacea to create cold elixirs and it had been a horrible season for trolls catching every imaginable sickness. They sell these ingredients in the shops, but they aren’t properly mixed and set it the way he does.

All these grow along the Misty Meadows territory. If he leaves now, after Creek does, Branch is sure he can be back before he returns. Branch taps his chin in thought, then walks over to his bed to scribble a few items he could use for future ventures.

He slips the paper beneath the door, waiting. It isn’t a whole lot, he thinks. Branch still waits by the door expecting Creek to come up with some type of reason to blast Branch’s wish to have such strange supplies. They weren’t strange to Branch; _puffalo yarn, firefly bulbs, ground ginger root, and a hunk of Hematite_ _to reconstruct a pair mortar and pestle set._

There’s a period where fidgeting and twiddling with his fingers leaves Branch going through a span of anxiety.

Another paper glides below the door, landing right at Branch’s feet. It lands where he can see the words very clearly _: ‘Anything else?’_

Branch hunkers down to scratch _‘No, and thank you’_ below the neat cursive and slides it under the door.

Then Creek’s footsteps carry him away from the door, each step loosening the chains of anticipation from around Branch’s belly. He nearly sags to the floor. That’d been so weird. Here, Branch had been prepared for a wicked backlash only to receive curt courtesy and silence. It’s more than he could have asked for. He doesn’t know why Creek is choosing to lay off the insults and haughtiness, but Branch can’t help being on guard in case old habits return. He can bear dealing with a grouchy, no-nonsense-having Creek.

This Patient Creek has his nerves frayed.

Maybe he’s trying to lure Branch into a false sense of security. Or perhaps Creek is trying to butter Branch up until he can gain what he wants and leave Branch a withering, helpless wreck. Any scenario is better than setting Branch up into assuming that Creek can actually be civil and . . . nice?

Branch frantically cards his fingers through his hair, mucking up all the work he’d into brushing it, then lays out on the floor.

Patience and understanding are virtues he should probably start working into his complex network of traits he barely practice. Branch can’t remember the last time he’s had to depend on anyone to take care of him. Outside of his grandma being the sole provider, and . . . well, there’d been another troll after her, but that time had been brief and Branch doubts the feeling of regret and ill-morality are mutual. He does miss that troll though. All the fun and care and nurturing he’d received. . . and just when he’d all but lost hope in believing he could ever be tended to like that.

Branch curls onto his side, thinking to himself, then decides that all of thinking is going to leave him feeling all moody and out of sorts. Creek’s likely left by now, so leaving without an interrogation will be easiest.

Branch jack-knife’s off the floor to go into the spare room for a ruck sack, being sure to grab his anvil and bypass shears in case he comes across some really stubborn or sensitive plants, then grabs a few mason jars before leaving his room. Though knowing Creek’s left, Branch checks up and down the hall anyway before stepping out. To be honest, he isn’t sure why Creek knowing he leaves making him nervous. A submissive has free reign to do as they please after the first three days. . .

So, even knowing he’s justified, Branch still jolts in place when he comes upon Creek sitting on the couch in the living room, staring accusingly at Branch like he was caught in the act of committing the most heinous crime.

“Leaving?” questions, Creek. The inflection in his tone stands out more, thick as chilled syrup, and Branch can’t gauge how to respond. It’s neither sarcasm or casual. Creek stands, folding his arms, tapping his foot. “Well?”

“I was,” Branch starts, glances to the side, then remembers he doesn’t bend and uplifts his chin. “I need to get a few things and check on a couple of projects I’ve been working on.”

“More things?” Creek narrows his eyes. Reaching up into his hair, he pulls back the paper, reads over it, then holds it out. “More than what you wrote here? If you need things—”

“I can get these on my own,” Branch patiently cuts through, fingers tightening around his rucksack straps. “You don’t have to do everything for me. And,” he sighs, “I’m going stir crazy staying in here all the time. I need fresh air, some sun, Hell, a hike in the woods?”

Creek says nothing at first, staring hard and silent. “I’m not against your leaving, Branch,” he says at last. “I’m wondering why you feel the need to sneak off.”

Branch shrugs artlessly. Then he blinks, lifting an eyebrow. “How’d you know I was tryin’ to sneak out anyway?”

Creek proceeds to roll his eyes. “Over twenty years of habitual acrimony, and you think neither of us thought to pay attention to the other’s habits? I’m sure you’ve familiarized yourself a few of mine.”

That’s true enough. Branch nods. “Yeah.”

“Prove me right.”

“You spend thirty minutes every Monday, Wednesday and Friday meditating by Rainbow Falls when the sun’s reached its apex. You schedule your yoga classes on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays, rotating between Pearl Brook, Glass Field and Airy Plateau to avoid wearing down the grass.”

Creek scrunches his face. “My schedule’s common acknowledge around the village.”

“I doubt your students pay attention to the way you use different mats to accommodate the change in terrain. Or use different incenses to acclimate to the air around you.”

“That’s. . . awfully accurate. How the devil did you know that?”

Branch dully lowers his eyes. “Figuring out your system wasn’t hard. I made it my business to adjust my harvest days around your schedule to avoid running into you. Yet somehow and someway—”

“Mother Destiny ensured we crossed paths,” Creek wearily finishes. He folds his arms as well, and licks his lips in thought. “Strange,” he murmurs to himself, chancing an odd look at Branch, then vigorously shakes his head. “Where are you off to?”  

“Misty Meadows, and probably Pine Groove on my way back.”

“What’s out there?”

Branch shifts uncomfortably. “Some, uh, herbs and stuff.”

Creek squints at the movement, then huffs. “Fine. Be careful. Think you can handle that or should I offer a helmet and padding?”

“Don’t be more of an idiot than you can help,” Branch automatically snips, inwardly feeling a tad more balanced now. Yes, this is definitely better. He can vent his feelings through petty insults. He turns on his heel and starts for the door. “I’ll be back before dark. Unless you think I’m too incompetent to find my way back?”

Creek snorts. “Your own words, not mine.” He makes for the door as well.

They walk out together, Creek turning to lock up. He unhooks the spare key and passes it to Branch.

Branch shakes his head, taking a step back.

“Take it,” Creek says in earnest. “In case you arrive back before I do.”

“It doesn’t feel right. This is your pod.”

“By law, it’s _our_ pod now.” Creek fixes him with a daring look, then steps forward and with a cautious rise of his hand, pushes the key into Branch’s hair. He’s leaning near enough that Branch momentarily suffers the delusion of the troll’s glittery freckles leaping out at him like the sparks from a sparkler.

“The sooner you get used to the idea, the better off this arrangement will be for the both of us,” Creek says in flat tones and sweeps off the ledge beneath his door and to the ground far below.

Branch reaches into his hair for the key, looking over the tarnished bronze, then sighs and puts it back. Their pod now? No way he’ll come to recognize it as his home anytime soon. As far as he’s concerned, he’s just someone residing with a roommate. He flicks a slightly hostile look in the direction Creek’s gone before snapping his hair tip to the closest tree limb and swings himself over, setting off in the opposite direction.

The Meadow Shops weren’t always here.

The long stretch of merchant chain shops sprung up some weeks after The Great Escape. One day it’d all began with one troll wanting to give away spare quilts and hair sheets to those who didn’t have much of their own. Another came along wanting to share the extra water fetched from the river since not everyone is able to travel far and often. Not long after, came several more who felt the urge to give away clothes and hair combs. Within a year’s time, as their territory became more established, the path of tables began to grow into wide stalls, mobile carts, pitched tents, and large walk-through centers.

Every single one of them offers a unique item, but they all share a singular trait and those are the bells that swing and chime in the sunlight.

One can never be too far away from the ring of the bells. They all ring to their own mysterious tune. They’re the advertising instruments of choice for any shopkeeper with living things, herbs, elixirs, food, clothes, jewelry, florists, even weapons to trade. The bells hang off the curled locks of hair belonging to the shop’s owner, suspended directly above the entrance.

Of course, there aren’t only bells. A few of the more spiritually endowed trolls prefer the whimsical peal wind chimes provide that simply can’t be mimicked by the sharp ding bells are only able to do. Nothing against the bell ringers, but Creek finds this section of Meadow Shops much calmer, less of a hustle. Typically, it’s only because the shop owners here seek more quality exchanges and services, then the common easy to obtain trades.

His yoga sessions and natural piousness speak for themselves.

The part Creek enters is a hollowed-out base of an enormous oak tree that rises three stories up in a winding spiral, integrated within the tree itself. It’s the largest and carries practically everything a troll could ever need. And for the things Branch has asked for, he knows he’s bound to find them in this place.

The shop owner herself is an elderly teacup troll with dark purple hair, pale green skin and sparkly red eyes that bespeak a trace of a Gem Troll somewhere in her lineage. She’s highly respected and very well should be. After all, she’s the whole reason Meadow Shops exists in the first place.

He happens upon her knitting on a bench and at her feet are several tiny teacup trollings playing with toys and animating sounds. She lifts her eyes up at him, kindly smiling. “Namaste, Creek.”

He smiles back at her. “Namaste, Madam Petallope. How are you?”

“Good, good. Can’t complain. I’m getting to spend time with my grandtrollings. All eight of them. Say hello to Mr. Creek dearies.”

All eight of them look up and echo a polite, “Hello Mr. Creek,” then return to doing what’s most important, playing with their toys.

“I see none of them lacks manners,” he muses.

“Oh no, dearie. They know better. Every last one of them’s met the wrong end of my hickory stick enough times to know I don’t mess around.” She giggles, patting the space next to her and scoots to the side as if her tiny self were all over the bench.

Creek tip toes through the children and settles next to her. “I would chat but—”

“I don’t expect you to stay long. Not this early in the morning. So, what can I do you for?”

Creek retrieves the list from his hair and passes it to her. “I’m looking for these items. As many times as I’ve been here, I wouldn’t know the first place to look.”

Petallope straightens her glasses, pitching them forward a bit to magnify the writing. She clucks her tongue and nods. “Ah, yes. All of these will be on the second floor. Madam Violet keeps every mineral stone there is. The puffalo yarn and firefly bulbs are in Mr. Aster’s. The ginger root you can get Miss Cleo.”

“Thank you.”

“These aren’t for you,” she states matter-of-fact like. “They’re for the young lad you got matched with, yes?”

Creek hides his sigh. “Yes.”

She nods again. “He’s very resourceful. Highly spoken of around here too. You know we wouldn’t have a lot of quality stock if not for him.”

Creek stares in wordless surprise. “Is that right?”

“Oh yes,” she goes on to say, “a whole lot of what’s here, he collects and trades in for tools and lumber and strong metals. I’ve always wondered what he does with those things, but I don’t complain. The traders and shop owners are happy. That’s all that matters.”

“Yes,” Creek slowly answers, leaning back. “That is all that matters.” He never knew that. Gazing up at the overwhelming number of stores within this single establishment, just how much work does Branch put into helping? Helping at all! He had no idea that Branch socialized with others period. Creek has assumed for years that all that Branch has ever needed or gained, he’d simply hunted and trapped for it. It’s a rather interesting fact to know. . .

“I should go get his-my-our things.” Creek clears his throat, then bows to her. “Namaste, Madam.”

“You too Creek,” she says and returns to humming and knitting, mumbling a small scolding to one of the trollings when they play too roughly.

Creek ventures through the stories to clear his mind, but it’s easier said then done. For each one he’s entered, he’s found himself asking the owner if Branch supplies any of the items there. To his shock, he’s their go-to merchant for very specific materials. Creek thought it’d be just at the stores where Branch’s desired items were, but hardly the case. He found himself randomly entering shops and asking them all the same question. By the time Creek reaches the store he came in for, he had discovered a world’s wealth of knowledge.

Branch is the reason there are delicately brewed elixirs.

Branch is the reason behind the latest use of firefly liquid lanterns.

Branch is the reason why some of the owners here have taken to modifying their display cases in order to store more of their supplies.

And Branch is the reason for why the most difficult to find herbs are available at all. Because he goes far and regularly explores and collects and tests them before passing them along for use.

To hear about a single troll, Branch of all trolls, taking on the task of such extraordinary feat, is mind boggling. And dare Creek even confess, incredibly impressive. He isn’t sure what to do with this knowledge. Creek knows if it’s as much of a shock to him to learn of this, it means not a whole lot of other trolls know about Branch’s labor either.

Or. . . perhaps many in the village know and only he is blind to it because all he’s ever known about Branch, or wanted to know, is that he’s grey and negative and a grump.

Creek bunches his lips to the side. He can’t be blamed for that. It’s not as though Branch has ever been forthcoming about himself. He’s kept to himself all of these years and when it comes to Creek, he has always gone out of his way to avoid communication. Which has until this day, suited Creek just fine. Only, domestic obligations have altered their interactions now. He’s tried and continues to try being civil, but Branch isn’t making it easy. Creek can’t say he has been a better example. Neither of them has been. He doubts a change will ever happen.

“I don’t normally to have to wait this long to pluck a nacelle of berries.”

Creek’s head snaps up at the familiar deep voice. His gaze centers on Judge Rootsberg stressed impeccably as expected for a highly respected judge; a light blue blazer, tailored white shirt left unbuttoned at the collar, and khaki slacks. He pushes up his glasses, eyebrow lifted and clears his throat.

Creek starts in place. “My apologies.” He steps away from the stand of various berries he’d been looking over for the past few minutes. “I was lost in thought.”

“I suppose you would be. Having to choose between eight different berries can be a daunting task.”

Creek catches the judge’s lips briefly sliding into a small smile before he’s stoic again. “For what reason would the mighty judge have to grace himself amongst us common folk?”

Rootsberg flicks him an unamused glanced. He takes a nacelle with a small mound of boysenberries, keeping a stern, fixed look on the younger troll. “Still sour over my judgement, are you?”

“Remarkably so.”

“Hmm. And here I thought you would have dealt with it faster than Branch. Seems you both could stand to take a page from my own relationship.” He hums a moment and softly chuckles. “I still stand firm in my decision. In all of my years of witnessing countless connections made by the Destiny’s Bloom, I can’t say I’ve found a match more profoundly perfect then what I see in you and Branch.”

“With all due respect, your honor,” Creek sarcastically drags, “I think I would prefer a second opinion. One from someone more verse in the art of psychological match-ups.”

“I’ve been telling him that for years, you know.”

Creek frowns, turning in place to the voice behind him. He’s nearly face to face with a darkly blue colored troll with towering orange curly hair neatly piled into a messily tied spill. Unlike Rootsberg, this troll is more dressed for the sunny day, wearing dark tan cargo shorts and a yellow tailored shirt, buttoned only half way up his chest.

He steps forward, holding out his hand. “Brooke, Rooty’s better half.”

“Clearly,” Creek says without thinking. “And obviously younger half,” he announces, glancing over his shoulder with a world of _‘wow’_ and _‘seriously’_ reflecting in his eyes.

Rootsberg clears his throat again. Brooke laughs heartily. “We get that often. Everyone’s always quick to believe I’m his younger step brother or distant cousin or, what is it the young folks say these days? A side-piece?”

“Brooke!” Rootsberg exclaims.

“Oh hush, Rooty. How often do we have to explain that I just look amazing for my age?” Brooke leans into Creek and whispers, “He may be fifteen years older then me, but he’s hardly a fuddy-duddy.” He straightens, widening his smile. “But back to your earlier statement, speaking as a certified psychologist, I can offer to have you and Branch join my family one weekend to evaluate your relationship. Perhaps if properly done you will see whether you and Branch a fit or not.”

Creek shakes his head. “No thank you. I may not be in the ideal relationship, but I do know Branch and I will agree on not being treated as study subjects.”

Brooke shrugs. “I wouldn’t say study subjects. There’s another word, but I think I would still like to have you two over for dinner one of these days. It would be nice to have Branch over like he used to. Apollo certainly misses him.”

“That boy,” Rootsberg grumbles, sidestepping Creek to look past his mate’s shoulder. “Is he in here with you?”

Brooke blinks. “Well, he said he wanted to shop around on his own—”

Rootsberg lays a hand over his eyes. “Darling—”

“He won’t go overboard like before. He promised he wouldn’t.”

“Did he kiss you on the cheek?”

Brooke stiffens.

Rootsberg sighs. “As I thought.”

Creek looks between the pair, confused. He’s no stranger to Apollo, their youngest son. Over half the village knows of him on an extremely personal level, Creek included. And Flint. Especially Flint. Apollo’s probably one of the greatest reasons why Flint misses the single life. Creek can relate.

“I’m sorry to cut our conversation short, Creek,” says Brooke, chuckling nervously, “but there’s the small matter of our pod suddenly becoming incredibly—”

“Saturated with every useless knick-knack to exist! Excuse us,” Rootsberg snaps, then all but drags his mate away, fussing.

If Apollo’s in here, Creek had best leave while the getting’s good. Temptations a vile beast and an encounter with that insatiable troll is like weaving a steak before a Growl Beast.

He should be leaving anyway. There’s the small matter of collecting his own essentials before heading home. They’re all on the higher floors.

Creek navigates through the stores without incident. He sees familiar faces, spares a few moments for conversation with some, and by the time he grabs his last item, it’s nearly sunset. He does want to look over some fabric first. He could use the material to stitch the hole in his yoga mat.

Creek knows he tends to hum to himself and chant old foreign lyrics whenever he’s in a good mood. It’s why he is caught off guard when the subtle brush of a hand grazes the underline of his buttocks, then squeezes. Then the pressure of a warm body aligns to his backside and all but melts into him, smelling heavily of smoked herbs and peppermint. When next comes the press of smooth lips beneath his ear, Creek sighs and steps to the side.

“You know it’s frowned upon to push up on matched trolls,” says Creek as he checks over his shoulder at the darkly colored troll. “For once in your life, exercise some restraint.”

Apollo sucks his teeth. “Wow, and here I thought you came around here to reminisce about the broom closet,” he sarcastically jerks his chin towards the door leading to said room, then adds, “but I suppose those days are behind you, aren’t they? S’ a damn shame too. You _and_ Flint off the market at once? Whose idea of a joke is this?”

Creek smiles a little. “The punchline’s come and gone, yet I haven’t so much as cracked a smile.”

“We could still, ya know,” Apollo bounces his eyebrows, then flicks his gold earring, smirking seductively, “celebrate your getting cuffed to the ole ball and chain.”

Creek suffers a moment’s arousal where his mouth dries and his groin aches while being in this troll’s presence. There have been days upon days of endless hours spent wrapped so tight in each other, there was neither a beginning or end to their bodies. Creek can say that the one thing he regrets above all else is having to sacrifice are his sexual escapades with Apollo. Besides himself, no one else in the entire village could match his and Flint’s stamina like Apollo.

The dark blue troll is vain for a reason; a wet dream personified.

His skin is a deep blue, so blue as to seem a touch past midnight, but he doesn’t quite resemble any of the common blue trolls seen around. Patches of illuminated freckles clutch at areas of his body, hard to ignore. Just as the fiery red tipping his thick hair, that almost contradicts his personality as it smoothly blends into a shade like his skin tone. His eyes are a brilliant, arresting gold. Creek remembers how starring into them right as he reached his climax would leave him feeling affixed in boneless pleasure.

Looking him over, with those same narrow hips and sinewy muscles, Creek inwardly wishes he could sample the deviant again. If just once to get rid of this dull clinch in his pants.

His deep chuckle starts Creek out of his ogling. “You’re really making me wish there wasn’t decades worth of tradition stuck between us right now. Keep looking at me like that, I might just risk being disowned by my father.”

“How I wish that weren’t the case.”

“You know we still could.” Apollo inspects the aisle they’re on, already knowing there won’t be many trolls around this close to closing. He steps into Creek’s personal space, until their noses brush and breathes share. “Who’d know except whoever you tell. I can definitely keep my mouth shut. That is,” his hand lands on Creek’s hip and squeezes, “if you’re willing to let me use it.”

Creek nipples his bottom lip flirtatiously. “Where would you put it?”

“Everywhere.” The motions of Apollo’s hands are smooth and leisure, like he doesn’t expect Creek to object to him gripping his behind and guiding his hips to fit their crotches into that special pocket of heat. A soft grind has Creek rising to the tips of his toes and his back bumping into the shelves. Apollo’s hand momentarily leaves to steady him, then glides back to situated itself back in place. “You feeling a lil’ bold? I’m not against putting on a show right here.”

“I’m not opposed to it either.” Creek curls his fingers into the buzz trimmings at the nape of Apollo’s neck, teasing the hairline.

His eyes narrow in a challenge.

Apollo seizes his chin and kisses him, easily thrusting his tongue inside with the familiarity of a friend being welcomed home. Creek presses his hips in at just the right angle to properly form that roll and grind they both favor. The dark troll’s tongue dragged against the roof of Creek’s mouth, messily coiled Creek’s. When he suckles Creek’s bottom lip, his knees weaken like his resolve. 

Just like old times, this fiery excitement, and the glorious wave of relief washing through Creek to finally curb his sexual appetite, surges with violent spasms. This can’t be done with Branch. It can never be this way between them. This level of intimacy is as foreign to the grey troll as the elements of happiness.

No sooner do the thoughts of the grey troll enter his mind, Apollo’s taste swiftly changes. His savory wet sweetness is less succulent and more a souring, revolting flavor. Creek feels the stubborn dryness in his own mouth building. His mouth stops filling with saliva and his tongue feels dry as sandpaper. He ignores it as best he can to savor this, especially when Apollo’s inserts his hand through the front of Creek’s pants.

“Yes.” Creek tears his mouth away to hiss through clenched teeth. Apollo fondles with his sex, stroking the length, pinching the head and swiping his thumb over the slit to smear cum in his grasp.

_“Why do you hate me?”_

_“Because you’re strange.”_

Creek’s eyes shoot open. No, not here, not now. Why, of all times, that damnable troll continues to wreak havoc in his mind’s eye. The scrape of teeth along his jugular suddenly reminds Creek of what’s most important and feels his leg hike up and loop around Apollo’s hip when his hand picks up speed.

Creek swallows thickly against the vile puddle of spoilage filling his mouth. His eyes dart open and turns his head sharply when Apollo’s teeth sink in, pulling a mouthful of flesh between his lips to suck. That shouldn’t worry him as much as the age-old memories choosing to plague his thoughts from a scene nearly twenty years old.

_“. . . but I don’t hate you. Is that OK?”_

_“You should. It’ll give you something to feel besides sadness.”_

_“I don’t want to hate. I want to be happy, like you. Will I ever be?”_

Creek had never answered the child that day, he’d merely brushed Branch to the side and left. The trolling was filthy, worthless and a shrouding cloud of gloom and despair. Creek hadn’t the time or care to spend speaking to a younger troll that society chose to ignore just as they tried to do everyday with their bergen troubles.

And yet, even after that. . . Creek couldn’t imagine leaving him behind and didn’t—

The ugliest snare rips from the core of his throat. “Get off me,” he growls.

“Ah, we’re playing _that_ game?” purrs Apollo, roughening the way he tugs on Creek’s sex. “What’s the key word? Let it be my name. I love the way it rolls off your tongue.”

“No,” Creek gasps, breaths hitching dangerously high and tight. “Apollo, let go. Back off.”

His tone must have changed octaves, became less involved and more serious, because Apollo slowly backs away, looking put off. “What’s wrong?”

“That accursed bond,” says Creek. “I can’t get into it.”

Apollo suddenly grins, flashing his sticky fingers. “I’d say you were into it more than you think.”

“Regardless, we can’t and shall never do it again.”

“Hmphed.” Apollo looks around the aisle, eyes brightening when he finds some folded cotton fabric and goes to whip his hand between the stacks. “There, a surprise for the next stuffy troll.”

“You’re horrible.”

“Just like your timing. Man, ugh, I was about to shake the dew off this lily and then you just had to go getting all righteous.”

“It isn’t me, it’s the bond!”

“Yeah, yeah.” Apollo shrugs and sniffs. “Blame it on some dumb posy.” Then he grins wide. “You’re lucky you know.”

“How so? It’s a long walk home and I’m liable to put someone’s eye out on the way!”

“I mean being mated to Branch.”

Creek’s hangs a little open. He cracks a short laugh. “You can’t be serious.”

Apollo loses his smile fast. “I am actually.” His expression softens, a rare relaxed and calm look usually reserved for when he’s reached an orgasm. Apollo chuckles, rubbing a hand behind his head. “Branch is the kind of troll who makes you wanna settle down. Ya know, make you forget all about the exploits of the past and focus on the future. He’s so, I dunno, special.”

“We are referring to the same grey recluse who’s survives in the wilderness, yes?”

Apollo sighs, lowering his eyes. “You really don’t know what you have on your hands, dude. What’s worse is that you think yourself quite the catch. You assume it’s you who’s the ideal gift, the ultimate answer to what makes a troll a troll. Sweetheart, you couldn’t be more off track if the rails were glued to your feet.”

Creek glares, then chuckles darkly. “Darling, would you rather be the pot or the kettle?”

Apollo shrugs. “The difference between you and yours truly is, I don’t go around portraying myself to be what I’m not. Everybody in the village knows I sleep around. It’s practically second nature for me to jump from bed to bed. I’m not looking for praise, just a good time.”

Creek suddenly has that sense of feeling like a discarded towel. He glances away, grimly thinning his lips. “I need to get back home,” he grumbles, turning on his heel to leave.

“Hey, you’re still coming to the concert tonight, right?”

It hadn’t been in his plans. Creek isn’t sure he really wants to bother. But it has been a couple of weeks since he’s gone to a musical. And despite feeling low right now, Apollo’s performances aren’t something you miss. Creek shoots a sharp look over his shoulder, gives a nod, then continues on his way. It doesn’t take long for his erection to lose its vitality.

Apollo couldn’t have been more unattractive until this moment.

Branch rubs at his chest again.

“Are you sure you’re OK?”

Branch nods to Poppy, flicking his hand for her to relax. “It’s nothing. Probably the sprinkles in these cupcakes.” He’s never been one for sweets. All that sugar gives him stomach aches from time to time. He’ll chalk that up to why his chest’s been buzzing and dully aching. It’s the weirdest feeling to have. As if his heart’s trapped in a tiny cage and every pulse is a struggle.

“. . . and I knew the moment I looked into his eyes that we were made for each other.”

Branch narrowly catches the tail end of Poppy’s sentence and looks up in mind to appear like he’d been paying attention. Not that she’d notice anyway. She’s too enraptured by North’s light blue eyes to appear that she’d been the one to disturb his day and invite Branch out to have lunch with them.

North’s the kind of troll Branch never would have dreamed to be Poppy’s type. As far as Branch knows they don’t even run the same circles. North’s a lime green, magenta haired health nut who’d rather explain the importance of daily jogs and protein shakes then sing, dance and hugs. He participates in them all, but he’s always been an exercise freak who’ll sooner work up a sweat in push-ups and leg-ups, then carting a hundred trolls on his shoulders during a skit.

“He’s my snoppy poopy, honey pie,” Poppy gushes dreamily.

North sighs too, pinching her chin. “She’s my hearty, smarty, smoochy, woochie, baby waby.” Then he flexes his muscular arm and Poppy is squealing and sighing and they’re swapping saliva right in front of Branch again.

“Oh God.” No, this is why he feels sick. It has to be. No troll should be this mushy. It should be criminal. Branch clears his throat, shoving away from the table. “Poppy, if you’re busy, we could always—”

“You’re my cutie patootie, lovey dovey, honey buggy.”

“You’re my pinkie, winkie, sweetie peetie, sugar booger.”

On second thought, Branch just gets up and leaves. He doubts she’ll even notice. With such a pleasant distraction, he’s able to escape unseen. He’s completed all of his scavenging for herbs, even coming across several to use for later on new medicines he’s been meaning to test out. A rare, tiny smile tries to make its way on his mouth; he recognizes when the muscles in his face stretch and feel unusually weird around the corners of his lips. He tightens his mouth to keep it tame.

When he arrives below Creek’s pod, Branch latches his hair high up on the branch supporting it, while reaching in his hair for the spare key. He lets himself inside. Creek’s nowhere in sight. Branch is fine with that. He could use the peace and quiet.

He downs his rucksack upon entering the living room and goes to the kitchen to see if the jerk was thoughtful enough to get Branch something decent to eat. In the ice box, on the second shelf are plastic packages inside with his name labeled on them. It’s the first time Branch has ever looked inside the refrigerator, so it’s a big shock to find he does have food inside. He takes one of them, lifting the lid. Inside it is a carefully cooked and cooled meal; baked snap bug with it’s shell peeled off, some smashed roots and steamed grain seeds.

Creek cooked for him?

Branch growls, slapping the lid shut. Now it means he owes the jerk. Why does he have to make this relationship thing so complicated? They don’t have to interact, just live together and here he is, doing the sickeningly noble thing by taking care of him. Branch sighs. If he doesn’t the do the same for the jerk, he’ll feel guilty. So, he thinks over something quick and simple to make that Creek will actually eat since he has such a refined pallet.

Drumming his fingers over the plastic container, Branch’s brain percolates with hundreds of recipes, new ideas, and soon chooses to try something new. He isn’t overly familiar with a macrobiotic dieter’s tastes, but he knows what the diet itself entitles its eater to consume. Branch wonders how far he can stretch the rules though.  Then he snorts and simply decides to cook it. Whether Creek eats it or doesn’t matter.

Luckily, the ingredients he needs are all in stock: fresh veggies, millet seeds, seasoned creams and some cheese. The cheese will be the deciding factor since it’s a diary, which makes Branch wonder why it’s even in here. He takes his time to wash and bask the millet seeds, sautéed the vegetables in oils, then grates the grate in a bowl. When it’s all done, he mixes the millet, veggies, cream and cheese together into a large lump, then breaks off handfuls to flatten into pancakes. They’re fried in the same oils and all neatly stacked on a plate.

Branch steps back to inspect his work, thinks better of it, then takes one and bites into it. The texture’s consistency is exactly how he predicted; crunchy on the outside, soft and gooey interior. Perfectly executed. He polishes off that one and another. He grabs a piece of paper out of his rucksack and scribbles a note on it before laying it against the plate.

He snickers. Creek probably won’t even eat it. A pity really. These taste so good. Branch shrugs before gathering his things and heads into his room with his own cooked meal. He’s really excited to get to work on these new experiments.

It’s early evening when Creek arrives home.

He hadn’t expected to walk into his pod with the air smelling richly of something delectable. Flint can’t have come over. And when he does, it’s never, ever to cook, thought the bloke could certainly put some of the village chefs to shame.

The only other explanation is Branch having come in to fix his own dinner. Creek shakes his head at the notion. So, rather then eat the meals he’d slaved over, Branch would rather make his own food. Probably thinks Creek poisoned them or some other unsavory thing.

Whatever it is the grey troll made has the whole front of the pod smelling heavenly. Creek hears his own stomach protest and troops to the kitchen to create something quick and easy when he draws up short. There’s a plate heaping with crispy millet cakes, stacked like a pyramid with a note reclined against them.

_Made these for you. Try not to choke._

_~Branch._

Creek can see why Branch may feel reluctant to eat Creek’s food. He feels just as dubious. It isn’t in Branch’s nature to pull pranks, but he wouldn’t put it past the grey troll to feel vengeful every now and again. But another harsh growl from his core urges Creek to throw caution to the wind and try them anyway. What’s the harm? Smelling good is one thing. It’s the taste that matters.

He grasps one and takes a kittenish bite. His teeth sink through a crunchy surface, then further into creamy, explosive innards where every single flavor attempts to overpower the other. Creek’s eyes shut in blissful titillation. He goes through several of them, even licking his fingers and the corner of his mouth to capture any of the crumbs. That’d been the best thing he’d ever tasted. Seems the grey troll has his talents, cooking being one of them. Creek can even admit he’s a lot better then himself.

Creek doesn’t finish the whole plate and goes to put the remaining few in a container and puts them in the fridge. Though upon opening the door, he notices one of the ones he had made for Branch is missing.

The tiniest, most microscopic smile tugs on his lips. He finally ate one of them. Creek didn’t think he’d ever work up the nerve. Even Branch’s stubborn pride is no match for his stomach. But just to get back at him for being so cheeky with that note, Creek writes his own and slips it under Branch’s door in passing.

_Thanks for dinner._

_You’re welcome by the way. Just so you know, I could have easily poisoned it while you weren’t around._

_~Creek_

Creek pauses on the stairs, mentally counting in his head before the predictable crash and hacking and coughing could be heard behind Branch’s door. Creek throws his head back, cackling as he climbs the rest of the way to get ready for tonight.

Flint had all but begged Creek to take him along with him.

“I can’t take much more of that freak’s early morning happiness!” he said on their way down the Tree Troll and into the Root’s Dome housed underground. “Do you know he wakes up at the ass crack of dawn singing to the sun? He sings to the sun, cousin. There are actual pauses in between the lyrics like he half expects the sun to start carrying its weight in song and everything. Heaven, help me, I may go down in history as the first troll to murder their mate!”

“I thought you were all for tradition and for trolls to put up with their mate’s quirks.”

Flint shoots him a foul look. “I’m all for acclimatization because it’s to be expected, but who knew it’d be this hard!” He runs a hand through his combed hair because it always helps to calm his agitation and remains him how flawless he is. “Coming out here is exactly what I needed. You know Clay had the nerve to ask if he could come? I nearly had a stroke. I think you lucked up better then me. I’d rather have Branch looming in the shadows then have Clay waking me up every day sitting on my stomach with bright smiles and smelling like raspberry tarts!”

They trudge through one of the five gaping openings into Roots Dome and step into an array of laser lights flashing in an array and bright colors and designs. The floor’s a wavering carpet dyed with illuminous neon shades ranging from pink, yellow, green and blue. Music roared from the DJs humbug turn tables, pounding bass beats so loud, the walls rattled like thin glass. Bodies writhed on the dance floor, others stayed tucked in the corners with their mates, still fresh in love and wanting to show them off. A large overhead black light catches the white in their teeth, hair and eyes, brightly popping out like white freckles in black paint.

This is a normal sight for when waiting for their favorite performer. Poppy still holds the record for bringing in the largest crowds, but Apollo comes close behind, his songs stirring something in the patrons that leaves them panting and tingling with lust.

“What a turn out!” Flint yells over the music, bobbing his head. He fist pumps, and shimmies his hips. “I’m outta here, bro. The music’s off the wall!”

Creek leaves Flint to his own devices to go find a table to watch from the sidelines. He only came for the bustle and thrill of the evening. Watching how happy his fellow trolls were never fails to leave him feeling satisfied in a sense. They all deserve to relish in freedom and take advantage of being as loud and happy as they can be.

It’s something Branch takes for granted and Creek wishes he could see it from his perspective. The trolls don’t have any reason to fear because the bergens will never find them. They’ve found their own slice of heaven out here. Shouldn’t the twenty years of no bergen activity be reason enough to believe that maybe, just maybe they are truly free?

“Damn,” Creek softly curses, wiping a hand down his face. There he goes again, letting that grey fool cloud his mind. He’d come out here to enjoy himself, not allow the cynical pessimism of a certain jerk distract him.

The lights and music shut off without warning. Creek sighs, wriggling in his seat. He’d picked the best spot in the whole dome to catch the performance. He sees Flint weaving his way through the crowd in a hurry to cut off a troll about to sit across from Creek and scoots his chair over.

Two large humbugs waddle to the adjoining platform. DJ Suki leaps on the back of one, twisting the mic to her mouth and yells, “Bring it in!” An addictive favorite tune pulses through the speakers and they all absorb the wild energies summoned from the rapidity of the lasers shooting out of the ground and the glitter canons swelling for the main event.

Resonating thumps pump through the speakers as the platform rises three levels higher and in the center, a figure cloaked in all black. And as he drapes it on his shoulders, revealing his face, Apollo breaks into his number’s dance sequence. He's all sensual strokes and teasing leg swirls. The crowd goes mad.

_“Time for the spectacle, time for the show. The lights are bright and the colors glow. I’m not just any ole troll, I think you, the time is now, it’s about to blow!!!”_

_“_ _Razzle, dazzle, glints and glam. Turn it on up, it’s a spectacle._ _Razzle, dazzle, glints and glam. Turn it on up, it’s a spectacle.”_

_“Give me more, razzle, dazzle. Glitters, eyes, big surprise, lights cameras, Ahh, ahh, ahh, ahh, ahh, ahh, ahh, ahh, ah, ah, ah, ahahahahaha!”_

_“Razzle, dazzle, glints and glam. Turn it on up, it’s a spectacle. Razzle, dazzle, glints and glam. Turn it on up, it’s a spectacle.”_

_“Give me applause, here to impress. I’m not just sexy, I am so boundless!”_

Apollo ends it with a lick of his finger and slips down his bare chest. Clad in only his signature harem pants, leaving zero to the imagination, he has trolls of both sexes climbing the stage in a frenzy just for the chance to touch him. 

Flint stands to give him a standing applause. Creek claps his hand twice.

“I don’t think there’s a dry panty around,” says Flint, moaning softly. “God, what I wouldn’t give to taste that body just one more time. Just one last suck, and I can die knowing I have no regrets.”

“Same here,” murmurs Creek. “Though. . .”

Flint looks at his cousin when he hears Creek’s voice change. “Though?”

Creek shifts uncomfortably.

Flint narrows his eyes. He leans forwards, “We both would like to wonder what it’s like to sample a bit of Apollo since it’s been _a few weeks_ since either of us has broken the sheets with him, yeah?”

“Of course.” Creek clears his throat, reaching up to pulling a bit of his hair to twirl between his fingers.

Flint gasps. “Oh my God, you didn’t!”

“I didn’t!” Creek quickly defends.

“You’re messing with your hair, Creek. You only do that when you’re nervous,” he growls. “You’re going to honestly sit here and lie to my face?”

“We didn’t go all the way!”

Flint sits back, darkly glaring across the table. “I may think Clay’s a bug-eyed freak sent to test my sanity, but we’re still mates. As much as I am dying to get my hands on Apollo, I know I’ll feel sick inside knowing I betrayed Clay’s belief in the blossom. I can’t believe you allowed yourself to be so weak!”

“You don’t understand. Branch is the last thing I’d want to mate.”

“So? That’s your problem. Deal with it.”

Creek sighs, frowning. “You don’t have to make me feel worse then I should. It wasn’t like we penetrated. Just a bunch of fondling and snogging.”

“That’s still too much!” shrieks Flint. “For crying out loud, Creek, what were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t OK? It’s not like it matters. I don’t love Branch nor will I ever. Even if he finds out, he’ll understand. Cynical and paranoid, he may be, but he’s sensible. Why would he want to lose his virginity to the one troll he loathes?”

Flint juts his finger across the table at him. “You don’t ever tell him, understand!” He says, dead serious. “I mean it, Creek. Take this to your grave.”

“What’s the big deal?”

“Swear it!”

“OK, OK, consider it done.” Creek huffs, laying his cheek against the back of his fist. “I don’t see what the problem is.”

Flint sighs, sinking so low in his seat, only the tip of his hair is visible. “I truly have the dumbest family left in this world. Just pray you never find out OK. If you really want to know, go do some research. God, it should be against the law for trolls who look as good as you to be so damn dumb.”

“Shut up.” Creek twists away from his cousin to finish watching the rest of the performances unfold. But he can’t pay attention for the life of him.

Flint has him a tad concerned for his actions. He’d only acted out of sheer need. He can’t go through living in a relationship where zero intimacy happens. It’s one of the main ingredients of a troll’s relationship. Branch will not sacrifice his virginity just to sate Creek’s sexual appetite. Creek wouldn’t want him to do it anyway because he already knows he wouldn’t care about the aftermath. It’ll just be a fling and he’ll probably leave the grey troll feeling low and used.

. . . Sort of how Apollo left Creek feeling back at the store.

Creek wipes a hand over his eyes. For the first time in his life, wishing, he hadn’t done what he did. Because now he actually feels regretful about something pertaining to Branch.

Will wonders ever cease?

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Razzle Dazzle from My Little Ponies Gen 8 (Colt Version) Love the Hell outta this song.


	7. What Destiny Brings In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really like how this chapter came out. Again, big thanks to all of you for reading this story. Once again, I DO NOT OWN APOLLO. He belongs to gluggs and ginger. Please excuse any mistakes. Enjoy!

**What Destiny Brings In**

Creek wakes to the sting of sunshine spilling across his eyelids and a hum in his throat. A groggy groan is stuffed into his pillow as he turns inward to try latching onto the sleepiness. He knows what time it is without looking at the sunrise.

It’s scarcely past dawn. His body is always precisely spot on when it senses the sun coming. He can never sleep in the way he wishes. His internal clock would much rather have him up and going before the sun has a chance to properly breach the horizon.

Creek stretches across the bed, extending his arms over head and legs beneath the cool sheets before sagging listlessly against the mattress. He blinks at the pale ceiling, eyes drifting to the fluttering curtains by the window.

The room’s cool despite the sun bearing harshly through the window. It’s awfully quiet outside, save for the shrilling wind chimes—Creek smirks at that. A gift from one of his past admirers. Ching, if he recalls, was something of a collector of wind chimes, theorizing that the clinging peals bring soothing tranquility. The trolls probably resting from last night’s concert. And knowing with all these wonderful facts in mind, the quiet, the musical chimes and cool atmosphere, Creek can’t take advantage of it.

Unfortunately, there’s nothing he can do about it. Once he’s up, that’s it, regardless of how tired he feels.

But there is something he can do about _another_ problem.

Creek rolls on his back, sniffling and chuckles. He flexes, feeling content as a cat, but the ache beneath the covers refuses to be ignored. Sporting a hefty morning log is typical for him. He can easily attribute the reaction to last night’s tantalizing dream of some old sexual fantasies with a nice round bum. And most of his dream comprised of Creek being able to cope a feel of more than that imaginary behind. Creek has always been able to bring any lovely troll to their knee caps with soft words, small touches and looks.

The purple lets his hand skim over the smooth plane along his chest, finger tips tickling over his pecs and nibbles his bottom lip. Creek checks the window for any signs of nosey neighbors and then checks his bedroom door to make sure it’s closed. This isn’t the first time he’s indulged in this kind of morning activity, not that he anticipates Branch really coming up here. It’s something he’d prefer to keep private.

Seeing as there’s no witnesses to scar, Creek comfortably settles in and allows his hand to continue its slow travel below. His eyes flutter shut at the sensation of foreign, blunt digits grazing across his bare skin, lingering where his abdomen triangulates towards his pelvis.

The day dream gradually blossoms bit by bit in his mind.

A renovated version of his pod comes into view; the high arching ceiling above and just out of the corner of his eye, an upper deck platform where his true soulmate spends their time spare time to think.

But his gaze glosses as overwhelming bolts of warmth shoot from his groin when said mate fabricates before him and on their knees.

Creek buckles at the shock of pleasure, teeth baring down heavily on his bottom lip.

The flush of balmy breathing fans over his naked thighs and there’s the gentle stroke of soft warmth licking so near. Creek grasps his engorged sex, purring in agony as his imagination shows him a shadowy darkly colored face venting warm air between his body, teasingly wriggling their tongue along him intimately. A sexy chuckle vibrates from this troll between his legs, a teasing stroke of a hot tongue sweeping across the seeping cum off Creek’s sex.

The lean, svelte build. The obvious strength in their figure. Creek wants all of it. But their voice, that sweet, angelic croon, serenading Creek through every step of what’s to come . . .—Creek’s hips jerk into his hand.

He can hear them whispering in a singsong voice . . . their resounding softness just a touch above brio . . . mercy such a worthy tone easily leaves Creek exploding every time.

Oh, lest he forget his most favorite trait; skin tone. Nothing has ever tickled his fancy the way a troll with medium to darkly colored hues does. There’s something alluring about a troll standing against the backdrop of a midnight horizon, hair blending into the shade and having it wrap possessively around Creek’s own lightly colored hair as he brings them into a rising climax.

There, that’s a much better picture. Seeing him lay his dark lover against Creek’s satin sheets, their face glossed by moon as he wedges between their thighs. He will plant the barest kisses to their jaw, rub his nose into their chin, and breathe in their scent, ears tingling to their whispering pleas to hurry.

Creek grunts, hand speedily stroking himself. “Ah, yes . . . that’s, so perfect.” His stomach convulses, his hips thrust sharply, chasing after the evading orgasm. Pleasure devours him from the inside out, building and receding. Creek moves his hand faster, tightening his grip, chanting the desperately to his secret lover like a prayer.

“I . . . need. . . you.” Smothering bright blue eyes watch him, trust him, as they wither and beg. It becomes Creek’s undoing and he finally, _finally_ spills into his palm, a string of curses flowing through clenched teeth. Several more pumps pull the last throbbing passion out of his sex before it lays spent in his hand.

Creek’s chest rises and falls as he opens his eyes. The smell of sex fills his room. His cheeks are flush, sweat filming over his chest and hips, some of it mixing with the sticky residue on his stomach but he can’t bring himself to feel ashamed. Creek sighs and licks his dry lips.

So, this is what he’s reduced to now, having to sexually please himself these mornings. Once, it would be so easy to summon anyone to assist him in this department. Now he relies on a numb hand and a good imagination. Such is what has become of his dull life now. For all the good it does to dream, what he wouldn’t give for some reality on these fantasies.

Creek grunts as he tries to work some strength into his limbs. Everything feels too heavy to move. He falls loosely to the bed again, unable to resist a small bubble of laughter. He’s getting a little out of shape. Going a whole week without having his yoga sessions has left him feeling flaccid and lazy. One more try and he manages to sit upright and swing his legs around to sit on the edge of the bed. 

Casting a long look out the window, Creek listens more, pressing his lips together. Still silent. No troll is going to wake up in time to join him in yoga today. He can do a solo class on his own then. Creek leaves to go shower off the evidence of his bored sex life.

****

 

Branch ducks his head beneath the shower head, vigorously scrubbing at the grit and grime stored in there from going days without shampooing. He wipes at the drowsiness in his eyes and then lightly bumps his forehead against the tiles. He can’t believe he woke up to the front of his pajamas soiled. _Again._ He needs to get better control over his needs. Some of the sheets are damp and sticky too. He’ll need to wash them without Creek noticing. The last thing he needs is that jerk making snide remarks about Branch’s virginity and immature ejaculations.

If only Branch could do away with those dreams of being tossed and manhandled and held down while being mated senseless. Sometimes he feels weird for feeling this way. It’s how he’s always thought his experiences with his mate would be.

But this dream ends differently then the ones from before.

There’s the usual dominance at play, Branch submitting to their demands, squirming to the heated words pressed into his ear the same way their tongue is. Towards the end, he’s lain on his back by a troll of lighter complexion, dark eyes, and their hair touches him in ways someone does while worshiping a God. They kiss him, touch him, drive him crazy with want and whisper and chew on his ear until the heat builds up to near explosive and then Branch reaches his orgasm to the feel of their lips suckling his neck.

Branch shakes his head sharply to dislodge those thoughts.

He seriously wishes this whole Destiny Bloom thing had worked out better then it had. He’s not sure if he will be able to hold off on pleasing himself. He’s been able to thwart all attempts by showering, exercises or working out. A hot shower’s probably the worst way to go, but he figures why not kill two clouds with one stone and wash his hair as well.

It’s just, the humidity, the cascading hot water caressing his backside leaves him feeling flushed all over.

He wants. . . he needs. . . if just once. . . Branch swallows thickly, trembling all over. He can’t erase those haunting images from his brain. Their intoxicating seductive ways, the bodily hums quaking through his being, it’s all wreaking havoc on his soul. Branch can practically smell their scent cloaking his body.

He’d woken up to his breathe stolen from him, heaving to apparitional fingers trailing down his chest and scratching at the part between his thighs and sex.

Branch smacks his hand against the tiles, hanging his head beneath the downpour, letting it beat across his shoulders.

 _‘Suppress it. Don’t give into temptation.’_ He mentally coaches, hand trembling as badly as his thickening need. He won’t do it. No matter how much he desires it. His first climax should be given to him by his soulmate. His true, real soulmate. No matter what the Destiny Bloom foretold, that troll isn’t Creek. Branch would rather go through his entire life untouched before giving that crooked jerk the satisfaction.

These sensations are always fleeting. Branch can push through it like he’s done before.

He turns away from the spraying water to tip his head into the water, screwing his eyes shut and wills himself to push through it. The burning, the throbbing pang, it can all be ignored and tucked away.

It works, after a whole lot of coaxing and pleading to it to calm down and turning the water to freezing cold, Branch leaves all his frustrations in the bathroom. He towels off and slips on the plush robe Creek gave him. Branch is subconsciously aware he’s lifting the collar to his nose and inhaling the aroma. It sort of smells like him, a very disorienting mix of scents.

It isn’t, strangely, all namby-pamby. There’s a faint musky smell, kind of masculine. And—Branch sniffs again— there is a weird soapy smell there too. It’s not unpleasant, just different.

Branch finishes tying it closed and looks out the window. The sun’s barely up. He doesn’t have to venture out right away. Most of the trolls will sleep in until the afternoon. Luckily their wild antics didn’t attract predators. Branch had spent most of last night securing the perimeter in case the creatures heard the commotion, or worse yet, a bergen having caught wind of their new home.

The night was, thankfully, uneventful.

As much he wishes he could join the trolls in sleeping in, somebody has to protect them from their naivete. And sadly, that one troll is him, so he really needs to wake up. He has coffee, or maybe drinking something lighter would be better. His stomach’s too out of sorts to handle caffeine.

Creek may have some tea. But Branch has his own leaves and herbs to brew. He just needs the tools.

Branch goes into the spare room to grab the tea pouches and leaves the room. He checks up and down the hall before exiting. There’s a light on in the kitchen. He inwardly groans. Branch had high hopes the idiot would sleep in today. So much for trying to avoid him. Creek is all over the place.

He hears him moving through the kitchen, some clinking and thuds. Branch frowns, gliding down the hall and rounds the way to stare, blinking at Creek’s back moving from cupboard to cupboard.

Branch bites on his bottom lip. Creek looks a wreck. He’s never seen the troll without his hair combed or wearing his signature cotton sweatpants. He’s wearing a powder blue dressing robe, same as Branch, but his has purplish fur stitched in the rim. His hair is all over the place, clearly damp from a shower and there’s a lack of speed and grace in his movements. He’s sluggish and heavy in his steps.

“Wow, you look awful,” Branch announces.

Creek pauses where he’d been pulling down a bowl to glare evilly over his shoulder. He gives Branch a onceover and turns up his nose. “I certainly wouldn’t talk, sir. You could stand a good grooming yourself.”

“I don’t need too when I’m,” Branch catches himself before he says, _‘at home’_ , “comfortable,” he says instead, then comes to stand in front of the kitchen, looking at the spread of colorful bowls, a skillet and a cutting board. “You’re cooking?”

“Very astute, Branch.”

“You know how?”

“Didn’t you eat it last night?”

“Yeah, I’m surprised I’m still alive to speak about it. Especially after that helpful fact you passed along _. Jerk_.”

Creek nearly cracks a smirk. “It’s not like your own skills are worth chatting over.”

“Oh?” Branch waltz into the kitchen to the ice box and opens the door. He bends into it, examining all the sleeves. “Hmm, I could’ve sworn there’d been a plate of something I cooked yesterday. What did it do, magically disappear in your stomach?”

Creek’s cheeks color a little. “Well—well you’re bound to settle for anything when you’re hungry at the time.”

“Yeah, I bet.”

“Nevermind that.” Creek takes a bowl, puts a mixer and some fruit inside. He thrusts it in Branch’s chest, nearly making the grey troll drop his tea pouch and stumble back a step. “Here, make yourself useful and chop these. _Finely_ chopped, not all blocky and uneven.”

Branch stares blankly at the items in his arms for a moment, before he realizes what he'd just been ordered to do. He shoves it back into Creek’s chest. “There’s a magic word you use first.”

Creek returns it just as roughly, dark eyes lit with anger. “I believe,” he says, voice deadly cold, “that I asked you to do something and since I’m the dominant one—you are expected to listen like a good submissive troll should.” The bowls and things are shoved back into Branch’s chest, barely padding a well-aimed punch from the hands giving them.

Branch grunts from the solid hit, doubling over briefly and shooting Creek a foul look, the bowl nearly cracking in his hold. “And you should be kinder in asking your submissive mate to do something for you, since it’s the dominant mates duty to make them feel cherished and wanted. Not slave-driven!”

“I have done no such—”

“Say please.”

“What?”

Branch steps into Creek’s face, and promptly shoves the items back into his hands. “Say. Please.”

“Branch—”

“Creek,” Branch sweetly mocks and folds his arms.

Creek balks on several words stumbling from his lips before visibly slumping. “It’s too early to deal with you. Forget it, I’ll chop the damn things myself.”

Refusing to look at Branch, Creek takes the bowl to the counter, expression tight. His steps to it aren’t graceful and balanced, but Branch hardly cares.  Then tis stormy blue eyes drop to the marble floor, tightening his folded arms.

For a few long minutes, the only sound breaking the silence is the noisy smack of a wooden spoon to ceramic bowl.

They’d both come in here seeking some peace or something to relieve their restless night. Branch would have assumed Creek had come downstairs prepared to fix himself a quick breakfast, but there’s too much food lain out for it to be a single serving. That and there are food groups here that Branch knows Creek doesn’t eat. Namely the plate of thinly sliced juke bug meat.

The longer the silence continues, the more uncomfortable Branch becomes just standing there. His pride won’t allow him to come out and say something. That’s practically conceding.

There’s nothing wrong with what he’d done; he isn’t one of Creek’s pathetic groupies, ready to bend and whimper and comb his hair or whatever else he wants because he cares enough to cook food for Branch too. Which is odd, because that’s a job Branch should be doing for them.

Branch glares longer at the floor, at his grey toes loudly contrasting against the pale marble floor and feels dumb for some reason.

Cursing under his breath, Branch tosses the tea pouch on the opposite counter and stalks towards Creek. “Move.” He bumps the other troll out of the way with his hip and takes over snapping the knife over the fruit.

“Don’t force yourself,” Creek says, rigid pride in his tone. “I’m more than capable of prepping on my own.”

“You’re so stupid sometimes,” Branch sourly returns. “Is it so much for you to say please?” Then he realizes the error in asking such an ignorant question and shakes his head. “No, of course not. It’s me, isn’t it? It’ll make you feel less than a troll to say please to just me.”  

Creek’s eyes slowly begin to narrow. “You suddenly seem to foster some odd aversion with my manners towards you. It’s never bothered you before. What brought this on, hm?” Creek takes up a spot behind Branch, leaning in enough to whisper, “What’s the matter, Branch? You’ve become so accustomed to my radiance that you suddenly feeling entitled to it?” A breezy chuckle. “How positively needy of you.”

Branch turns red, his ears flattening dangerously. “You would be so depraved to think asking for a please would mean I’m head over heels for you.” He seriously hates how Creek’s voice makes his ear vibrate and absently rubs his wrist against it. “Go make yourself useful. I’d prefer not to starve if it’s all the same to you.”

Creek huffs, rolling his chin up. “Don’t presume to order me about. I was going to help anyway,” the last sentence he mutters while taking residence next to Branch and mixing a batter together in quick session.

They were silent for long moments, until Branch breaks first to ask, “Could you pass me the blueberries or is asking you to do anything out of bounds?”

“Here.” Creek snippily does so, clearing his throat. “I need maple mullet. Can you read the difference between it and the regular mullet in the cupboard? Shall I draw up a map with colorful symbols to help?”

“Shut up.” Branch retrieves it overhead and lightly tosses the pack over.

Most of the prepping transpires like this; the carefully placed insults mixed in with requests for help. It makes it a lot easier to not fully sound as though they’re depending on the other for something. Branch likes it like this. He urges down the smile tugging at his lips and as he pours dollops of the batter mixture on a sheet pan, he hears Creek absently question, “Are you allergic to any spices?”

Branch keeps still for a short moment. “No, I’m always trying different herbs to test out taste and usage. I’d know if I am by now.”

“Just the peppercorn then?”

“Yeah.” An exchange without insults. That’s new. Branch moistens his bottom lip, then proceeds to ask, “I know you’re not big on eggs, but do you eat them at all?”

“I indulge myself occasionally. So long as I’m not consuming them often, why?”

“You have some in here.”

“I know that. They’re for you.”

“Oh.” That’s oddly considerate. Branch twitters with the knife handle, then says, “I think we should add some to the breakfast. . .”

Silence follows, then, “It’ll be a heartier breakfast then I’m used to. We already have so much. . . But I don’t oppose it.”

A slim eyebrow arches at the purple troll’s words, but Branch’s eyes glint with mischief behind Creek’s back. “Good, I was gonna make some anyway. S’ not like I need your permission to eat whatever I want.”

“Just for that cheeky remark, I will not be taking requests on how you like to eat them.” Creek huffs, returning to Branch’s side with hands in hand. He cracks several in the bowl and jerkily mixes them.

Branch purposely makes show of sliding two steps away. “Do you have to stand so close? I’m starting to wonder who’s becoming clingy here.”

“Excuse you? It’s _my_ kitchen! This just so happens to be my favorite spot to prep!”

“Sure, it is.” Branch whimsically answers, fighting with all his might against the tugging on his lips. “Stuck up, troll.”

“Hmmph, bloody savage.”

As clipped and cool as the words were, Branch hears the underlining amusement laced in there. It makes him feel a little better.

The rest of their time is spent in a silence not as heavily tense. The change is so painfully obvious, Creek’s become homed in on Branch’s every movement, spying how fluently he drifts around the kitchen like he’s always used it. Branch notices too when they’re about to move to another section of the kitchen, how they don’t bump into each other or lose footing in the haste to get to a certain ingredient. When something’s out of reach or necessary to add, they quietly ask the other for it and it’s given. Some lighthearted bickering comes around on occasion, but it’s so casual, it feels normal.

Breakfast is finished with plates of different meals spread out on the dining table. The small pieces of juke bug were grilled. The mullet batter mix became oven baked pancakes. The eggs, to which Creek eventually comes around to cook different for the two of them, are placed on two separate plates. A jar of cinnamon, powder sugar and syrup are added just before Branch and Creek come to the table with almond and rice milk.

The two stall by their chairs, glancing over the generous portions made, wearing similar expressions of shock.

“It seems. . .” Branch looks at him.

Creek blinks. “Normal?”

“Yeah.” Branch drums his fingers over the chair’s bar, mouth twisting to the side. “You probably mixed the batter wrong. And my eggs still look runny.”

Creek’s back stiffens. “Oh? And your dish of oddly cut fruits are complimentary? I couldn’t very well trust you with anything else. You probably would have done a better job if I’d given you a plastic knife. At least you’d have a pardon in why your fruit bits look as odd as your ears.”

“Shut up.”

“You shut up.”

Chairs are pulled out. They settle in and begin setting plates. Branch’s in the middle of spooning on portions of the food and forking on a couple of pancakes before realizing it isn’t for himself. He doesn’t eat sunny side up eggs. His face warms up. It’s a force of habit. This is what he normally does for Poppy whenever she had lunch with him. He chalks this up to be a routine thing and tries not to think too much on it when he holds out the plate to Creek, avoiding eye contact.

He vaguely wonders why Creek is taking so long to take the plate when he looks over and sees that Creek is passing over a plate fit to Branch’s liking. They slowly take the offered plates, muttering snarky thanks, and begin eating.

Branch bites into the mullet cake, chewing thoughtfully. It’s got this soft grainy texture to it. Almost like eating a bowl of baked oatmeal. He smiles small-like, having never tasted anything like it.

“Not bad,” he murmurs. He gathers some eggs on his fork, nibbling it and feels his tongue sparkle with the various kinds of spices added to it. That’d been a burst of unexpecting flavors. He swallows, and his smile builds against his will.  “So good,” he whispers and begins to eat with renewed vigor.

Creek’s eyebrows pleasantly rise. He smirks, lowering his eyes, and points his fork across the table. “Imagine that, the corners around your mouth can turn up after all.”

He sees Branch pause with a bite half way to his mouth, pouting at the teasing barb. “Guess you aren’t always a total ass either. Maybe it’s one of those mysterious wonders of the world.”

“I am that.”

Branch flicks a piece of berry at him. Creek catches and pops it in his mouth with a wink. Branch rolls his eyes and goes back to eating. This complacent, argumentative air between them, Branch finds appealing. It isn’t all mushy and weird and tense-filled. He’s almost reeling on the inside just thinking that there’s a kind of atmosphere he can tolerate around Creek. He’s been taking to their arrangement so much better than Branch has. Albeit, with a haughty kind of nature, but he’s been the more mature of the two.

Branch has been fighting it with poise fists and well precise kicks all because he simply wants to beat Creek to the punch in case this whole set up ends with it blowing up in his face. So, is it even possible for them to become civil associates maybe around one another? Branch just doesn’t want to get his up hopes. It’s so much easier to fight when it’s all he knows. . .

“Something wrong?”

Branch snaps his eyes up to Creek looking genuinely curious. And that in it, lies the problem. It doesn’t look fake. So is it truly possible—slightly shaking his head at such a ridiculous notion, Branch mutters, “No, nothing,” then goes back to eating.

Creek blinks across the table at his companion, maintaining a calm face when inwardly he’s anything but that. Somewhere between them fixing breakfast together and enjoying the results of their labor, the visions of him and Branch keeping to their stiff existence puffed into oblivion. Of course, being with him won’t be perfect. They challenge each other far too much for them to enjoy a complete day of pleasantries. But Creek is queerly fine with it. He doubts he would know what to do with an obedient Branch anyway. How awfully boring would that be?

So, perhaps, yes, he can confess to having adapted to their controversial relationship being built upon the foundation of negativity, constant aversity and on the rare incidents, physical altercations, but it’s easier this way. That’s just how they are. And contrary to what Creek thought he wanted between them, he likes it this way.

Creek smooths his hand along the tablecloth, faintly aware of Branch’s lack of interest in the food for a second time. He’d been puzzle by the grey troll’s change in tune towards the food. But knowing Branch, he’s likely overanalyzing everything that’s happened between them and feels out of sorts.

Creek frowns. Must he always be this way? He can’t ever go with the flow of things. He smirks deviously and wills a strip of his hair forward. . .

Branch yelps as threads of his hair are yanked. “Seriously?” he snaps.

“Stop frowning at the dinner table,” Creek snootily says. “You’re ruining my meal with your woeful pondering. Your aura’s buzzing so much, I thought we’d received a zapper swarm.”

“I’m thinking.”

“Don’t hurt yourself.”

Branch throws his spoon at him this time, ignoring Creek’s indignant squawk when he’s beaned across the ear. Creek nearly retaliates with his plate when Branch starts speaking.

“You’re being different,” he says, which could mean anything. His ears twitch and his eyes slide to the side. “You’re never this loose I guess. Or nice, I mean. I’m not used to this.” He timidly looks up, suspicious. “What are you up too?”

“I have to be planning something to be civil towards you?”

“You never were before, Creek. Why should us being forced into this thing be a reason to change?”

“Would you rather I treat you poorly? I may not have been as enthused in the beginning, and I reckon I have been. . . ill-polite towards you, but—”

“You’re making me wonder if you really hate me. . . and that’s what scares me,” Branch swiftly cuts through, a thread of apprehension woven so thick in his voice, it gives Creek pause. “Why do you hate me?”

Creek leans back in his chair, astounded. The echo of that age-old line resounds like a struck gong in his head.

_“Why do you hate me?”_

_“Because you’re strange.”_

_“. . . but I don’t hate you. Is that OK?”_

Once upon a time if asked this, Creek would have been quick to say yes. Nothing’s really changed in the brief time they’ve been together for that opinion to differ.

“I’m. . .” Creek glares at nothing on the floor, then comes forward, braiding his hands on the table surface. “To properly formulate an answer—”

“See? If you gotta think about it, then—”

The front door flies open without warning. “Honey, baby’s home!” Apollo confidently booms, slipping through the living room. “Ah, there you are!”

Creek gawks, outraged, sputtering wildly as he surges to his feet. “Who the devil—why did you just—who in the bloody hell just waltz into another troll’s pod like that unannounced? Are you mad!”

“Nope, not mad, but there’s no name for my condition.” Apollo steps in further, sporting a cropped black vest and navy-blue harem pants and his hair freshly combed to tower higher then usual. “Mmm, smells good in here. What’s that you got cooking?” Apollo pivots on one foot, oozing straight to the chair adjacent to Branch’s and spins it around to straddle. “My sweet baby, look at you. I haven’t seen you in a month of Sundays. You look as radiant as a basket of posies.”

Branch spares him a bored glare. “Good morning to you too, Apollo.”

Apollo sticks his bottom lip out. “Ah, that’s not the name you used to call me. What happened to Polio?”

“You know that’s a deadly virus, right?”

“Oh, you used to say it in a way that affected me just as bad, gorgeous.” Apollo smugly winks, reaching out to snag some fruit from Branch’s plate. He tosses it up and it lands flawlessly in his mouth. He chews, with excruciating slowness, licks his lips of the juices. “Tastes sweet, but you’re much sweeter.”

“Sweet?” Branch repeats, eyebrow cocked. “Have I ever professed to being sweet?”

Apollo noisily scoots his chair next to Branch’s own and stretches his arm out around his shoulder. “To me, you’ll always be the sweetest of them all.” He curls a finger under Branch’s chin, nearing closer. “How’s about some suga’ for your old pal, Polio, huh?”

Branch mushes him in the face. “Not a chance. Do you know how many germs are in your mouth? I have no idea where your lips have been in the past twenty-four hours.” He ducks away in rapid motion when Apollo tries again. “Easy, dude, I still have that right hook. Lest you forget about that broken nose from last year.”

“Oh, you mean that love tap?” Apollo shrugs, beaming. “They say love hurts. The greater the pain, the deeper your admiration is for me.”

“You’re delusional. Been eating shrooms again?”

“Nope, I’m totally coherent.” Apollo slips a finger in Branch’s collar and pulls back. “Nice robe. You are naked under this, right?”

“What do you think, genius?” Rolling his eyes, Branch strikes the dark troll’s windpipe hard enough to make him choke on his words. “Learn some manners, will ya? Sheesh.”

Branch steps over him. Apollo opens his eyes in time to look right up the grey troll’s robe. “Thank you, God,” he whispers and rolls up to his feet.

And right into Creek’s face.

“Hi Creek, fancy meeting you here.”

Creek can’t begin to describe the boundless fury surging through him. It’d all begin the instant Apollo plowed straight his front door without so much as a knock and completely dismisses his company like he doesn’t own the damn pod to begin with. In the past, sure, yes, Creek can admit that’ll often lead to them climbing his stairs and spending the day wrapped in each other’s embrace, but there’s a policy to follow. He and Branch may not be romantically involved, but they’re still mates.

“I live here,” Creek growls, fists balled at the side. “And so does Branch. I’ll appreciate you remembering that since we’re both mated, you’ll respect our privacy and not—”

“Oh, I know he lives here,” Apollo cuts through, grinning. “I’ve been meaning to come by to offer my condolences and,” he steeply leans to the right side, and whistles aloud, “admire all of his lovely assets. Babe tends to look his sexiest in the mornings. Don’t you, sweetie?”

Branch promptly flips him off before returning to washing the dishes.

Apollo blows him a kiss, then dully looks at Creek. “This is our regular routine. Don’t get bent outta shape.”

“Bent out of shape? See here—”

Apollo walks around him. “Branch, you’re being no fun,” he whines and lunges to trap the troll between his arms against the sink. “I hate when you’re like this. Pay attention to me.” He lays his face in Branch’s hair, loudly inhales and presses his crotch forward.

Branch acts on impulse, swinging under and taking Apollo’s arm with him to twist and hike up high.

“Owowowow, OK, OK, I give!” Apollo feels his arm sharply tugged for good measure before Branch shows mercy and let’s go. Apollo rotates his sore arm, hardly deterred. “Wow, you’re feisty this morning. Make me beg for it next time.”

Branch folds his arms. “What do you want today?”

“Just a little of your time, sweetie.” Apollo’s hand grabs Branch’s cheek and tilts his face to look into his predatory leer. “I thought me and you could spend time together like the old days. You know, chilling in Pinegrove, talking by the water, collecting herbs. I loved doing that stuff with you.”

“We were kids and where were you when I’ve been needing all of this help to get things for the village?”

Apollo playfully scoffs. “When have you ever known me to run _towards_ work? I’m allergic to labor.”

Branch actually smiles a bit wider. “How could I forget,” he chuckles a little. “Thanks, but no thanks. I don’t need that kind of trouble following me around today. Maybe some other time, yeah?” He pats Apollo’s cheek and steps around him. He nods to Creek on his way down the hall. “Thanks for breakfast.”

Creek watches him leave, so trapped in his confused state. It’d been strange seeing Apollo gush so much over Branch, but Branch handles it with accurate familiarity, it may as well be like watching a well-oiled machine in motion.

A tightness fiercely clutches in his chest. He isn’t sure who to feel more crossed with; Branch for his ability to overlook Apollo’s flirtatious nature and treat it like it’s nothing or at Apollo for his audacious disrespect.

But the answer is abundantly clear. Apollo’s still staring after Branch’s retreat into his room the way a Growl Beast yearns for their prey to come into the open. So, he continues to behave this way? Openly flirting with Branch right in front of Creek? The insolence!

“Apollo,” comes Creek’s warning growl. “I think it’s time for you to leave.”

Apollo angles a crafty smirk over his shoulder. “Why?”

“Because of your disrespectful entrance, your flirting with Branch and need I seriously go on about you threatening the foundations of tradition by openly invading my home as you did?” Creek feels more confident enough to add, “What would your father say to you behaving like this?”

Apollo digs into his ear, shrugging. “I could careless what the old troll thinks. You think he isn’t already riding my hump on everything else? This won’t be much different.” His voice goes low and seems to dive straight into Creek’s chest. “But call it for what it is, Creek. You’re feeling a tad threatened, huh? And here I thought you had no designs on Branch.”

“That’s beside the point!”

“I already know what you’re aiming at,” Apollo retrieves his finger, studies the tip, then smiles devilishly at the other troll. “But it’s OK, sweetie. I haven’t forgotten about our romps beneath the sheets. I’m fine to recount on those days if you are.”

Creek steps up to him. “That was then, this is now. I am mated, Apollo.”

Apollo’s gaze darkens. “Did that stop us from swapping spit yesterday?”

Creek gives him an unamused look. “It won’t happen again.”

“Who’s to say? It happened once, it might again.” Apollo makes his way towards the front door. “You’re weak, Creek. Weak. Creek. Huh, I like that. Weak Creek. Ha!"

"Apollo, I swear, don't you-"

"Do what? Steal Branch away? I may be trying. Then again, I might just wanna take his virginity. We sure as Hell know he won't be giving it to you anytime soon."

"It'll be me before you!" Creek snaps before his brain.

Apollo shakes his head. "When clouds come down and start talking, buddy. Ya know, it sucks Branch has to be matched with you with all trolls. Don’t you think I’d be the better choice? I’m not as, what’s the word, oh! Uptight.” He winks. “Peace, Weak Creek!” And drops out of sight.

Creek’s fist clenched until they bled through. Never, in all his days, has he felt a fury this immense. Apollo, a better choice for Branch? Not a chance. They may not see eye to eye, but Creek knows without a doubt that he would be the liable choice of the two.

Apollo doesn’t know the first thing about Branch. . .

Or does he?

Creek looks down the hall. Guilt filters through his body. He hardly knows a thing about the grey troll either. Yet, given their interaction, Apollo’s got a head start on him in that matter.

That lowly, foul, ingrate. Creek sneers, angry enough to spit.

Then Flint’s voice comes pushing its way to the front of his mind. Things said from yesterday about what he’d done. And it makes Creek wonder, does it affect his bond with Branch in any way. . . and does Apollo know?

 Creek’s mouth thinly presses into a flat line. . . Perhaps he should give cadence to Flint's advice and do some research.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Creek.... I may be reaching when I say this, but are you jelly? Hmmm.


	8. What Destiny Reveals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's chapter 8! Please enjoy and excuse any mistakes.

**What Destiny Reveals**

 

Creek will never understand the point of having access to a library if it’s tucked so deep in the woods, hardly anyone remembers it exists. A good deal of the villagers could use some intellectual sprucing in his opinion. First order of things in the future will have to be promoting the library’s usage so to avoid having to walk into so many cobwebs and layers of dust.

Much of his searching has been a tedious task, leafing through dozens of books and very few of them offering up more than a full page or paragraph on the effects of a mate’s infidelity. Creek had assumed Flint was putting on to scare him into avoiding future affairs, but from the scarce information Creek found. . . there may indeed be some validity to what Flint said.

“I don’t understand why you dragged me along. You screwed up. Fix your own problems.”

Creek bends to the book laying open on a chair and tosses through some pages. Flint snorts loudly with scorn when he isn’t answered right away. He’ll be alright of course. His need for attention is hardly part of Creek’s priorities.

A project of sorts has come to ahead the more Creek performed his research. Connecting the passages scattered throughout the numerous books he has arranged on his end of the table, has led to some promising leads. And well, that’s certainly worth all his dedication. From this specific tome, he scours through the pages until finding the chapter mentioned from a previous book and it’s here he proudly bookmarks it and goes to bring the rest of the books encircle it.

Creek pulls up a chair, waving for Flint to join him. “Seeing how you’re the one who told me to research on my slight affair, I thought it’d be sensible to bring you along to lead me in the right direction.”

“What help have I been?” snaps Flint. “You’ve done all the work. I need to be rid of this horrid place. There’s too much knowledge and ancient history and piles of dust mucking up my allergies!” To emphasize this fact, he abruptly sneezes. Flint sniffs, rubbing his wrist under his nose. “Bloody Hell, I am outta here. Get back with me when you’ve discovered how much of a moron you are.”

“Fine, fine,” mumbles Creek. “I’ll get back with you later.”

Flint’s company doesn’t immediately quit the chamber. He stalls by the exit, staring at the bowed top of Creek’s head. Fingers thrumming on his thigh, he sighs and walks back to join Creek at the study table. Only, he doesn’t grab a book and read aloud or help but waits until Creek breaks to acknowledge his return.

Creek eventually speaks when the gapping becomes too annoying to ignore. “What is it?”

Flint peers at him closely, lips sharply pressed in a fine line. “I should properly point out that after you read through this, it may, um, alter your attitude towards Branch.”

“I somehow doubt that.”

“I’m hoping so.”

“I’m curious to know why you’d think so.”

“You have a soft spot for him.”

That put an instant brake on Creek’s focus. “I beg your pardon?”

Flint scratches behind his head. “That came out way wrong. I mean, once you see what your actions may cause, you might feel obligated to change things and to be frank, I don’t think that’ll improve your relationship with him.”

Creek’s hand lightly rises to his brow in thought. “I didn’t come here seeking ways to improve my relationship with him. I came to find out what’s so damn horrible about what I did with Apollo. If you’d just tell me what it is instead of having me search through all of these books. . .” he leaves the rest of his statement open-ended and goes back to gazing at the notes.

Flint’s eyes shift. Creek picks up on the fidgeting in his cousin’s hands, then snaps his book shut.

“Well?”

Flint sighs, shaking his head. “Alright, but lemme ask you this. You know how when I was ready to mate, that crazy ringing started up in my ears?”

“And I developed a taste in my mouth. Every troll’s different.”

“Do you know how Branch learned he was ready?”

“I didn’t care enough to ask.”

This time, Flint chews his bottom lip, seeming more unnerved. “Clay told me he knew he was ready from the way his hands tingled, like craving the touch of his one true mate. He told me how Branch came to find out he was ready. . .” he pauses, meeting Creek’s gaze. “It’s in his chest.”

Creek snorts. “His heart?”

“Heart, body, mind and soul. By touch and by sight”

“So? It isn’t common, sure, but it’s nothing special.”

“It kinda is.”

“What do you mean?”

Flint grimaces, goes quiet and shakes his head again. “Nevermind. Just read on. It’s too complicated to explain.”

All of that just to have him return to doing what he is supposed to do anyway? Creek scoffs, dismissively waving his wrist and flips the tome back to the saved chapter and quickly zeroes in on a heavily underlined portion of the first page. Someone else has referenced this book, judging by the scribbled notes and coloring done to highlight the important bits. There’s no telling what truly takes presidency over the rest, but a particular sum of words stuck out more than the rest and it’s this that Creek reads through with slow care:

_ Destiny’s Bloom: a rare, perennial blossom infused with similar sentient properties like that which is found in the Troll Tree. Albeit unlike the Troll Tree that essentially utilizes happiness to generate chemical energy to fuel its growth, the Destiny’s Bloom feeds in dormancy off the troll’s strongest emotions and when it comes time to bloom, exudes pheromones most suited to a mate pair and draws them in. Only two blooms share the same scent and it’s through this scent that lures potential mates toward one another. Except, one flower permeates a much more powerful aroma and the troll seeking it is designated as the dominant partner.  _

_ The submissive’s half releases a similar potency, although it’s with different effects. The smell can radiate an aroma uniquely comparable to their dominant mate’s natural body odor. They will seek out the flower with a desperation that rivals a mother searching for a lost child and upon plucking it, will follow the root with determination. The same can be said for the dominant, except, it’s with a combined strand of pheromones that’ll unleash a smell promising fertility _ .  

_ Upon their first meet, the trolls are expected to become enamored and persuade their courtship traditions from there. Love at first sight, however, that isn’t always the case, of course. There have been circumstances where trolls feel cheated, possibly beguiled out of their chances at true happiness and rarer still, is when these trolls go out of their way to avoid physically, emotionally and spiritually consummating their bond.  _

**_ But no matter the circumstances or reasons, the Destiny’s Bloom does not fail.  _ **

Creek grinds his teeth, fist clenching just as hard against the table. The reader or writer made certain to make that point very clear. But the book itself even states that there have been trolls before him who have gone through similar troubles. It’s just their fates to fall in love and live their lives with the chosen troll no matter what. He despises believing that he may be doomed to share that fate. He sighs and continues reading.

_ Based on visual studies through several randomly chosen trolls, it has been discovered that the bloom’s ability to fatefully construct a predestined choice occurs as early as a troll’s childhood. This ability occurs from through the bloom’s roots that lie several inches beneath the surface. The roots absorb every troll’s essence and stores it within a minuscule crux that acts as a bubble of information. But due to trolls not being stationary creatures, it sometimes takes several years or decades before the bloom summons enough of what it needs to conjure a bud specifically designed for a troll and be filled with what it senses. **Hence, why it may take some trolls sooner or others later to feel prepared to find their mates.** _

_ The reasons behind why some trolls feel the urge to find their mates is yet to be fully understood, but no two trolls experience the same urge. These urges are always based on the five senses: smell, touch, sight, taste or hearing. Taste, hearing and smell are the most common senses developed amongst the trolls. Sight and touch are the rarest and therefore, the ones that are most subjective to suffering a psychological and physically damaging condition known as a Soul Burn.  _

**_ Soul Burn: for a troll to undergo mild to extreme soul consummation due to the adulterous propensities, intentions or conduct enacted by their soul mate i.e. significant other, lover, life mate.  _ **

_ Happiness is a vital attribute in every troll’s existence, however, it pales in comparison to the love felt when developed from the true spark of soul mates.  _

_ Because of this, there isn’t a more feared feature of the Soul Burn then the way it siphons on a troll’s love. The pain, hurt and anger caused by its effect reflect back and forth from partner to partner in an occult type of connection, gaining depth and resonance based on the severity of the affair. By the time the first cycle reaches its end, the victim will have subconsciously grown more stressed then before—which increases the effects of the distress and prepares the next cycle of still greater agony.  _

_ Symptoms of the start of a Soul Burn depend on the victim’s sensibility urges; the calling that alerted them to it being time to find their mate.  _

_ A cure to this is simple, yet _ _ not so. To avoid the cycle’s progression, the one responsible for causing the Soul Burn will need to simply reassure their mate through constant company, and verbal and physical affection. **These actions will need to be genuine or the cure will not work.**  It doesn’t need to be love per se; cordiality works just as fine. But be forewarned that the victim’s cycle(s) could evolve and worse based on their relationship with their mate. Thus, it is highly recommended that whatever type of relationship that exists between the paired trolls will need to be repaired. Otherwise, the victim will receive great harm to their psyche and suffer mental anguish or in rarer cases, **inflict self-harm.** . . _

Creek can’t doesn’t read any more, gently sliding the book to the side. He glances up, holding Flint’s knowing eyes for a moment, saying all he knows of what Creek’s learned. Creek lowers his face into his hands, breathing steadily and heated.

“I cannot believe this,” he mutters. “For that one brief encounter with Apollo, I stand to inflict this kind of suffering on Branch?”

“Things could’ve changed since this book was written,” Flint softly offers. “We’ve evolved since then. Maybe Branch hasn’t felt anything from it. You guys aren’t in love, so?” he shrugs. “It’s possible this sort of thing only effects those who have a vested interest in each other.”

Creek clamps his fingers beneath his chin. “I’d like to believe that.” He chuckles bitterly, bumping his brow against his clutched hands. “The book was right about a troll feeling cheated. I’m been saddled with having to give a damn about a troll I’ve despised most of my life and the same can be said for him. I wonder if he knows about this.”

“You think Branch would cheat?”

“Ha, never, that much I’m confident in. Branch is stubborn, foolish and at times, horribly brash, but he’s too sickeningly noble to be unfaithful.”

“You know him well enough to believe that?”

“There isn’t a doubt in my mind.”

Flint smirks a little, eyebrow rising. “So, Clay told me he’s thinking of baking Branch some cupcakes, but he can’t remember what the bloke’s favorite color is.”

Creek eyes him. “He’ll be wasting his time. Branch doesn’t care much for sweets. Perhaps a plate of meaty treats will do. But if he insists, I’d say go with purple.  Periwinkle to be precise.”

“What about favorite flower?”

“Aphrodite Amaryllis.”

“Snack?”

“Roasted pecans.”

Flint lowers his eyes. “And past time?”

“Reading and gardening.” Creek frowns. “What’s with the interrogation.”

Flint abruptly drops his head against the table. “You are without a doubt, the most oblivious individual to roam the earth.” He surges to his feet, tossing his hands in the air. “I have to leave you. A moment longer and I’ll contract your stupidity.”

“What are you on about?” Creek comes to his feet as well, hurrying after his cousin. “Really, Flint.” He pulls his cousin to a halt by the arm until he stops to face him. “Tell me what you mean.”

Flint opens his mouth to speak when Creek makes a triumphant noise and says, “Don’t tell me you’re going off those things. Of course, I would know Branch’s favorite things. He does all of mine and my habits as well.”

Flint blinks for a second, then asks, “Why?”

“Wouldn’t you want to know every fact about your enemy?”

“No, I’d go out of my way to avoid that troll. What you two have is something called obsession. I hardly see why knowing his favorite foods and things would be of any benefit to you unless you planned to organize his murder.”

Creek holds up a finger, then his eyes widen. “Oh. . . that’s. . . well—”

“You can explain it ten times over and nothing you say will justify this.”

“My life's objective wasn't to know everything about him and the same can be said for Branch.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I—” Creek quietens as his face becomes a brilliant plum. He can pretend he’d been about to say something else, but he shares one of those private stare-downs with Flint that wordlessly conveys what he truly meant. Flint is telling him to finish where he left off, while Creek is locked in limbo of feigning some other half of a sentence or staying silent.

“Well?”

Flint’s voice is insistent. Creek brings a hand to press between his eyes and sighs again. “What do you want me to say? I don’t love Branch. I don’t like Branch. What we have is a rivalry. What you want me to admit will never come to pass because it will never happen.”

“Because you won’t let it happen.”

“There’s nothing there,” Creek says, as earnest as he can without becoming irritated. “The foundations of our relationship is based on pure animosity.”

Flint folds his arms. “It hasn’t always been like that.”

“Don’t do that, Flint. We were scarcely out of our nappies. It didn’t last long enough to matter.  

“Funny you say that because the way I remember it, you begged my mum to let you keep Branch over every chance you could.”

“It didn’t last,” Creek starkly repeats. “And I’m done discussing this.” He makes to walk by.

Flint snatches him by the arm and tugs back. “Why do you hate him?”

“Why does he hate me?”

“You started hating him first. Tell me why?”

There’s utter silence. Creek doesn’t look over his shoulder. He knows Flint might be staring with narrowed eyes, refusing to blink as if the sheer weight of his glare could overpower Creek’s willpower and force him to do his bidding. It’s an expression Creek would rather not see. Not now. Not when the memories spurring from thin air gradually morph into clear images of days so pure and carefree and vibrant of colorful happiness.

“You want to deny it so bad,” Flint’s flat voice could be used to layer the floor. “I tried figuring it out myself, but the few reasons I came up with were either too stupid or selfish even for the likes of you.” He lets Creek go.

Unsurprisingly, Creek takes the chance to walk away without a backwards glance. How easy would it be to say he’s escaping from Flint’s badgering, when he’s actually leaving behind days he will never get back. He has Flint to thank for refreshing his bitterness towards Branch and he’s glad for it. Creek can’t see himself wanting to change his attitude towards the grey troll anyway.

_“Why do you hate me?”_

_“Because you’re strange.”_

_“. . . but I don’t hate you. Is that OK?”_

_“You should. It’ll give you something to feel besides sadness.”_

_“I don’t want to hate. I want to be happy, like you. Will I ever be?”_

Branch comes around the corner, toweling his hair dry. Now that he’s finished organizing the seeds in seasonal packages, he has time to relax before heading out to collect more supplies. The last of his belongings are officially unpacked and his bedroom feels more like home. He can keep his clothes in the spare room he discovered after pressing most of the storage bins in the corners and arranging the herb trays by the windows. The closet space is enormous. Even with all his clothes inside, there’s the remaining half he could fill with more if he chooses.

It’s the first time in his entire life Branch has thought about broadening his wardrobe. Having done an inventory proves he’s well overdo for autumn attires. And Creek was right about one thing—shockingly—it wouldn’t hurt for Branch to spoil himself sometimes right?

Branch finds Creek in the living room nursing a glass of posy wine, lazily swirl the contents in one hand, stretched out in the recliner. But Branch doesn’t think much about it at first and continues to the kitchen for water. When seconds merge into minutes without insult, Branch becomes suspicious.

There’s no telling what kind of funk the jerk’s in.

Branch throws back the first fill of water and pours a second glass. The silence eats at him and becomes so unbearably stifling, he has to stir the pot. And he does it with intentional provocation by tossing his sodden towel at Creek’s feet and going to stand by the armchair, studying over Creek’s pitiful state.

“What’s got your panties in a bunch?”

Creek sighs his life away in a single wisp. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” he drawls and tips his wine glass against his lips.

“I asked, didn’t I?”

“For what purpose?”

“Maybe because I walked into your kitchen, threw a dirty towel on the floor and I’m drinking from one of your glass goblets,” Branch displays said goblet up between them. Creek doesn’t bother looking at it. The ceiling’s more interesting apparently. “See, what gives?”

“Oh, do go away, Branch,” Creek drawls. “Haven’t you burdened my life enough?”

“Yeah, you’re totally out of it. Gimme.” Branch reaches out to pluck the wine glass from Creek’s hand. He lets it go without a fight and uses that same hand to massage his weary face. Branch sniffs the liquid, nose scrunching. “Ugh, how do you drink this crap? It’s awful!”

Creek chuckles sourly. “It numbs my anguish. I’m allowed to dream of better times.”

“Sheesh, aren’t you just a ray of sunshine.”

“Aren’t I always?”

It’s late in the afternoon and Creek’s buzzed. Branch can’t figure out where the equation of this weirdness fits. Creeks looks almost fragile, on the verge of welcoming a veiled madness. Branch isn’t sure where the urge comes from, but his hand’s going forward before his brain can order the command and he lays his fingers in the junction of Creek’s neck and shoulder.

His skin’s fiercely flushed, likely from the hootched nectar. Branch feels his pulse, as he imagines he would, and the beat of it leaps out in rapid sessions. That shouldn’t happen. Not as fast. His eyes flick up to Creek’s face and the purple troll is serenely lost in a fantasy where he’s smiling at Branch with eyes as bright as a constellation of red novas.

Creek’s hand drifts up and lands heavily on Branch’s wrist and lightly squeezes, smile still a whimsical mist.  “Have I ever lied to you Branch,” he sits up a little, “have I ever?”

Branch looks at Creek with something softly burning in the back of his eyes. “Depends on the circumstances.”

Creek giggles, actually freaking giggles, and Branch becomes extra worried for his pod-mate’s sanity. “You silly thing, I can’t think of a single time I have.” He moves to push himself to his feet and fails miserably, flopping in the recliner so hard, the stand kicks out, stabbing Branch’s shins.

“Yeah, you’re slushed,” Branch deduces, placing the glassware on the lamp stand. “Time for you to head to bed, buddy.”

“Will you join me?”

Branch’s face erupts into a dingy crimson. “Not if you were the last troll in the whole universe.”

Creek hiccups. “T-T-Technically speaking, I am the only troll in-in the universe you can open your legs f-fo-r-r.”

“I lasted this long as a virgin.”

“Oh, there will be urges, darling.”

“I’ll figure out a way to asexually reproduce. C’mon, we’re going to bed.”

“Hmm, sounds fun.” Creek barks into a spasm of laughs, slapping his head.

Branch rolls his eyes as he uses his hair and hands to pull Creek onto his back and carefully treks down the hall towards one stairs. This goes against everything he originally planned and going to Creek’s bedroom is way up the list of NO-NO’s. He can leave the idiot on the floor and let him figure out the rest once he shakes off this alcohol, but Branch will never be able to shake how disappointed his grandma would be in him for being discourteous.

The climb up the stairs is a trying one. Between watching his steps and dealing with Creek blowing raspberries in his hair, Branch’s close to praying for forgiveness and letting Creek fall on his ass. But they reach the top and entering.

The sunshine streaming through the doorway, parts through the curtains, spraying across their faces from parallel sides of the room. The room’s interior design is impressively grand. The decors otherworldly and impeccable quality. Just what Branch would expect of Creek. Too bad Branch doesn’t want to stick around to admire the craftsmanship the way his inner inventor so badly wants to. He makes a beeline for Creek’s—Branch blinks—bed?

This isn’t a bed. It’s a yard. This thing can accommodate ten trolls easy. Branch shudders to think what kind of activities went down in this room. He turns and carefully dumps Creek on the mattress, shaking his head as the purple troll immediately snuggles into the center.

Branch sighs in relief after finishing and raises his eyebrows at Creek when he doesn’t fall asleep right away.

He’s sweetly smiling up at him, face sleepy and vulnerable, and Branch wonders if this is what a sated troll looks like.

These thoughts are horrible. Specially to think of them over someone like Creek. Branch turns to leave.

Then Creek’s hand closes around Branch’s wrist.

Branch has to close his eyes and swallow back the gulp in his throat. Creek’s never touched him this gently before and it makes a God-awful difference because a pleasure so keen strings through his still shower-tingly skin and makes its way down his body in ghostly heats. Branch hears his breath pick up, turn hoarse and irregular.

“Come join me,” Creek drunkeningly whispers. Branch has a think of him that way, because no way on earth a sober Creek would say such blasphemous things. “Lie with me Branch. The bed’s warm and the pod’s cold. We can keep each other cozy. Sleep with me, then I’ll wake you up with my mouth and my tongue and however else you wish me to.”

Branch moistens his dried lips. Creek’s eyes instantly dart to his lips and he licks his own, tightening his hold.

“No, you get some sleep,” he says and pulls his wrist free, pressing Creek on his back and quickly steps away.

Creek rises to his elbows. He lays a hand over his chest, smoothing it over his chest and trailing it dangerously close to the rim of his trousers. “Don’t be shy, love. I can smell your dick dripping.”

“Creek, you hate me. Don’t you remember?”

“I can’t imagine why.” Creek sighs like a punctured balloon and stretches out on the mattress, turning on his side. “. . . but if you insist on being holier than thou, get out so I can rid myself of this accursed erection.”

Branch didn’t need to be told twice. He makes for the door like the hounds of Hell are on his butt.

“Branch?”

Branch stalls by the door. “What?”

“I don’t hate you.”

Branch scoffs. “Yeah you do. . . and I’ll be glad when you remember that.”

“I don’t hate you,” Creek repeats.

“You’re drunk, Creek,” mutters Branch. “Get some sleep.” He shuts the door behind him.

He doesn’t leave right away. The admission’s too much of a cruel cuff around his lungs. Branch feels anchored in place and tries his best to remember how air comes through his mouth and out his nose. Creek’s drunk. He’s drunk. He has no idea what he’s saying.

No matter how sincere he founds, it isn’t true. Branch comfortably nods to this and pushes away from the door to head down into his room.

Darkness befalls the upper pod, encasing Creek’s daydreams into a shroud of confusion and pity.

Drunk he says. The fool’s so daft at times. Creek wasn’t so far gone that he didn’t realize all that he was saying. The alcohol simply made his lips looser, his brainer duller.

“I don’t hate you,” Creek voices through a soiled throat and drags the covers over his head in a huff. “I hate what you’ve become,” he viciously whispers.

 

  


	9. What Destiny Cruelly Reminds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FREAKING FINALLY! OMG, UGH! OK, I have finally broken out of my writer's block for my beloved boys. I have to hurry because I'm due for work, but here is the long awaited update. I'm so very sorry and I hope you guys like it. Please excuse the mistakes that are no doubt littered all over this chapter because I have no time to proofread it. Enjoy!

**What Destiny Cruelly Reminds**

Creek awoke the next morning to a splitting headache.

He’s had his fair share of hangovers, but none this severe. It goes without saying that he likely deserved it after horribly he acted. Goodness knows he’s earned the throbbing pulsing like a wound at his temples.

Creek slips from beneath the covers, minding wildly arguing between showering or getting a pain reducing herb. He settles with the herb first. No matter how awful his behavior, he refuses to let this ache linger. He presses a palm to his forehead, groaning miserably as he steps out his bedroom.

His foot bumps into a smooth, cold surface. Gazing down, he discovers a water bottle and a napkin with a note taped to it.

_‘For your headache’_

It reads.

Creek grimly thins his mouth. And here he thought Branch didn’t have it in him to be courtesy without the favor being given first. That helps with a decision Creek has been debating over last night. Imagine two grown trolls being so awkwardly civil all because neither knows how exactly to mend a long-severed bridge. Branch’s thoughtfulness saves Creek the humiliation of having to take that trail of shame to his kitchen.

Creek wobbles a bit as he bends over to pluck the water and strangely. . . These don’t feel like pills. Creek unpeels the napkin to find bit of what smells like crushed ginger root and milk thistle. Strange choices. Then he takes note of the water. It isn’t transparent, but a murky golden copper.

What is he expected to do? Mix this weird concoction together himself? Creek perishes the thought and simply follows his common senses, folding the napkin and angles the contents to fill the water. He caps it and shakes the fluids for good measure. When he opens the cap, the smell’s potency triples from before. Whatever sinuses he will have immediately cleared up.

He sighs, wishing Branch would have gone with simple capsules instead of this nonsense. But he assumes there’s a method to his mate’s madness. Why not give it a shot?

Creek holds his nose and dunks the water back into his mouth, tongue slushing through the grainy ingredients and swallows it all. His stomach threatens to bottom out. Smacking his lips does little to remove the flavors. All that’s left to do not is pray the nausea and migraine give him peace.

He tosses the bottle in the wastebasket on his way to the bathroom to take a much-needed shower. The hot water’s a glorious remedy on its own, cascading over his muscles, loosening the previous night’s knots and crooks. His hair is given a thorough scrubbing as well. By the time he finishes, Creek feels more refreshed then he has in ages.

He glances at himself in the mirror. His entire body’s flushed a deeper hue of lavender, his hair’s lifeless slump drapes around his shoulders like a cloak. He chuckles at his appearance, thinking of how Branch will probably lose composure if he were to come downstairs looking such a sight.

Creek blinks, then his smile widens a smidge more. That actually isn’t a bad idea. Normally he would not dare allow a soul to see him look less than presentable. But it’s just Branch, even if he was startled from the first time, Creek can only think of what seeing him look horrible a second time will cause. The poor sap will probably be rendered mute.

Creek dries off and ruffles the towel through his long hair until it fluffs high and all over. Then he leaves to find a sleeveless t-shirt and dark gold lounge pants. The airs humid. Probably a chance of a rain today, but way later.

He smells something else filter through his door as well; like a hint of vegetables and eggs. Creek’s eyebrows become one above his eyes. And here he thought he’d be the one full of surprises this morning. Branch has gone and upped him twice now, first with the headache cure and now breakfast?

No. What is Creek thinking. Branch is likely making something for himself.

Creek cleans his room, then heads out looking every bit the bed-tossed-tyrant. The hilarity of it has him chuckling all the way into the kitchen.

. . . . Where Branch is. . .

Cooking breakfast.

Well then.

Creek folds his arms. “I honest will never figure you out. Here I come down here prepared to see your perfectly shocked face at my fluffy hair and you’ve gone and—and dolled yourself up!”

Branch shoots him a less than friendly look over his shoulder. Besides his eyes widening near comical proportions, he doesn’t comment on Creek’s appearance.

Which serves to piss Creek off several degrees above outraged. “I’ll have you know that I don’t usually look like this at home,” he dumbly explains and adds, “I-I just don’t feel like combing my hair today.”

“So, what? It’s your spot,” says Branch, shuffling the eggs around in the frying pan. “And I’m not dolled up. My vest’s dirty and I need stitching for my pants. This is called improvising.”

“Right.” Creek scowls. “And your hair? You gave yourself banes?”

Branch’s cheeks fill with color. “Didn’t you say I should groom myself better?”

“Well, I mean.” It’s Creek’s turn to be offset. He fidgets, and pouts. “I wasn’t expecting you to actually listen. You never listen to me. For bloody sakes when have you ever listened to anything I’ve told you?”

Branch shrugs. “Can’t remember outside of you convincing me to toss water on Biggie’s head that one time.” He lifts the pan off the stove and shifts to scrap the colorfully fried eggs on two plates. “Or when we stole Cooper’s hat and stuck it to his butt with honey. . . Still can’t believe it took him a whole week to find it.” The latter half is grumbled while pouring orange juice and grabbing the plates.

Creek doesn’t move from his spot by the counter, staring wondrously at Branch’s head until the grey troll looks at him curiously.

“What?” Branch snaps with heat. “What, are you going to say that red isn’t my color or something?” He says gesturing to his red vest. “What about these?” This time he’s pinching the fabric of his dark blue slacks. “Not up to your fancy?”

Creek shakes his head. “Don’t be daft,” he mumbles, eyes narrowing. “I was just caught off guard. You remembered the times we played together?”

Branch gives him the stupidest look in the world. “I remember everything in my life, Creek. The good, the bad,” he quiets, “the horrible.”   

“Which category do I fall into?”

Branch cuts his eyes at him. “All of the above. Stuck-up troll.”

“Hmmph.” Creek yanks his chair out and settles in, scooting the edge. “Bloody savage.” He snatches his utensils, clicking the forks and knife together and huffs a mocking, “Thanks for breakfast,” before digging into his meal.

“You’re welcome,” Branch snarkily returns.

Breakfast goes on in tense silence, the hard click of their utensils loudly resounding off their glass plates and thud of their cups hitting the table after sips, all of it adding to the discomfort. For the longest, they seem to titter back and forth like empty shells on the crest of a small wave.

The subtlest sweetness feels to swell and puddle in the dip of Creek’s tongue.

He’s so startled by the abrupt desire, he’s sent reeling and grasps the edge of the table to keep from tipping out of his chair. He’s not sure how to understand the onslaught of anxiety, confusion, reluctance and above all of them, tucked away like a shy mouse, this thrumming sense of desire. He scratches his head.

It clicks like a light switch and Creek avoids letting on that he’s aware and continues to eat his meal. Though, he does manage on occasion to spare a few glances in Branch’s direction, he catches the grey troll thrice times in watching him from across the table.

Creek has to lock his jaw from dropping in utter shock.

If anyone on this entire planet would have told him that Branch actually. . . dare he even dare to think the words?

At this point, their bond is growing steadily stronger. Sighs of attraction begin to develop through the traits used to notify a troll when they’re ready to mate and here Creek’s mouth is gradually filling with the most wonderful kind of sweet and sugary flavor. All because Branch suddenly finds him attraction and—yes, of course the damn bloke while Creek looks his absolute worse.

But for goodness sakes, what could have brought this on?

Creek’s never been the sort to jump to conclusions without concrete evidence though. He decides to test and see if what’s happening really is the result of his younger partner going through the throes of sexual attraction and puts it to the best. He stretches his arms, so his shirt rises and reveals plenty of skin around his stomach.

Creek’s mouth floods with a hunger unbearable to stand. He holds his ground, leaning back in his chair and openly looks at Branch until the weight of his gaze encourages the grey troll to glare in return.

Creek has a sneaking suspicion of what brought this mild crush on and he’s ashamed to admit that it would be due to his incoherence and drunken advances. He sighs, shaking his head. “Branch, about last night,” he pauses in case the other troll tries to interrupt. When no such thing occurs, he continues, “I want to apologize for my behavior. You and I may be at odds, but I would never, ever go so far as to make you feel uncomfortable. Especially in my own home.”

“It’s, um,” A dark hue further colors Branch’s cheeks, “It’s cool. I didn’t pay you much attention. You were drunk. I’d be a chatterbox too if I downed a whole bottle of wine.”

“I imagine you’d be the total opposite of who you are now.”

“You weren’t.”

“Oh?” Creek smirks deviously. He leans forward, to rest his chin on top of his braided fingers. “Tell me how I was last night. My memory’s a tad fuzzy.”

Branch’s frown hardens. “You remember enough to know you weren’t so courteous.”

“The only reason I know I behaved inappropriately is because past acquaintances were kind enough to enlighten me on my less than qualified character.”  

“Trust me, you were anything, but a model citizen. I think you could’ve given Apollo a run for his money.”

Creek grimaces. “That’s an awfully low opinion to have on someone,” he dully conveys. “I’d rather be compared to a bergen.” He flicks his wrist in the air. “I digress, I have offered you my apology. Do you accept?”

Branch pauses lifting of his spoon to his mouth to stare at Creek through squinting eyes. “What do you care if I forgive you or not?”

“Yes or no?”

“Does it really matter?”

“Yes or no?”

Branch throws an arm up, exasperated. “Fine, yeah, whatever, yes. Feel better now? Sheesh, not like I believed anything you said in the first place.”

Creek bites his upper lip, then his lower, and forces himself calm and avoid the attempt to stir him into a fight. Or rather, he would prefer to not have it where he randomly blurts out how he feels so it doesn’t come off as a desperate lie. “I _do not_ hate you, Branch.” He watches closely until Branch feels he doesn’t have a choice but to look and listen. When he does, Creek goes on to add, “It’s vexing, yes, I know, to think that after all these years that I’m able to utter such blasphemy like we haven’t tried to kill each other on a daily basis, but it’s the truth. It wasn’t ever you I was angry with. More like the persona you sport today.”

Branch holds his gaze and there’s a glimpse of understanding pity mixed with the intensity of that makes Creek want to demand he not assume he has that kind of power over him. “I don’t expect you to understand why I’m like this, Creek. You began to hate me when I turned grey right? S’likely why you stopped comin’ around. That’s not on me.”

“Bollocks!” Creek snaps, surging to his feet, fists clenched tight by his sides. “Whatever happened, you didn’t trust me to shoulder the burden with you. I lost my best friend in the height of the worse moment in our race’s history. I can vividly recall the instant I knew I lost you. Branch, Branch you didn’t even try!”

“I was just a trolling—”

“Prematurely forced to grow up in that rotten environment the same as the rest of us!”

Branch leaps to his feet as well. “I watched my grandma get snatched right before my eyes, you asshole!” He screams, furious tears shining in his eyes. “Do you have any idea how traumatizing that is? She risked her life to save me. I couldn’t do a damn thing. I was I-I was so lost. And you, you abandoned me like everybody else. All because you didn’t care to understand.”

“I understood plenty, you despicable creature!” Creek says in a low, grating voice that sounds to Branch like someone trampling on bones. “You’re the one who abandoned me. I sought you out Branch. So many times, I tried to keep you from entering that dark place, yet you were so much more content to wallow in the pit of despair—as if you’re the only one who’s ever suffered!”

“I wasn’t as strong as you and the others. You didn’t have to watch your parents get stolen from your lives!”

“How dare you!” Creek’s voice rises hysterically as he rounds the table to cuff Branch by his vest, strength summoning within to rise him, so the tips of the grey troll’s feet scarcely scratch the floor. Branch stubbornly angles his face away. “You look at me, damn it!”

Branch refuses. The defiance awakens a violence in Creek held back from years of trying so hard to find resolution to their separation. He has tried. He grew tired of trying. He is the only one who bothered to try. He shakes Branch’s and throws him to the floor, straddling his waist and steals his hands to staple by his head. He leans in and still Branch doesn’t look at him. The tears finally, finally spring free and Creek can’t help that, now can he? He’s hurting too; more so then he’s ever realized with how much his chest constricts from seeing Branch’s face scrunch in emotional pain. He can’t remember the last time he’s ever seen Branch cry.

“You impudent, good for nothing, sorry excuse for a troll. What gives you the right to pass judgement on the rest of us? You think because we continued to be happy that we don’t hurt? As if we did not mourn the lost of our families? I wasn’t absent the days those filthy creatures pillaged us on Trollstice. Sometimes outside of that day and those were the worse. At least we would have the holiday to aim for because we could guess how much longer we had to enjoy each other’s company. Why the fuck do you think we sing and dance and hug so frequently? The fact that life is so tragically short, we’ve become accustomed to embracing it as much as we can because—because we know at any given second, it can be taken from us.”

Branch finally, finally shifts his head to look Creek in the eyes. He blinks through the swimming vision of Creek and pulls uselessly at his wrists until he’s freed and roughly shoves him off. Branch works himself up into a cross-legged sit and gives his back to Creek. “I . . .” He sniffles, hoarse and voice so raw with a child’s emotions. “I envy you. You’re so much stronger then me. I wish I could forget what happened to my grandma. I wanted to, so very much. But—but,” he chokes, rising his arm to cover his weeping eyes. “It hurt so much, Creek. I fucking wanted to be happy anyway, but it was my fault. If-if I hadn’t been so lost in song, if I wasn’t singing so loud, Chef never would have found us. It could’ve been somebody else. I wish it had been somebody else every day and I feel horrible for ever thinking that way. I’ve hated myself for those selfish thoughts. You all get to prance around and be merry like we didn’t lose our families. . . I felt like—like you were all sick. Not me. I let the pain fester, I wanted it to consume it. . . Only because I knew it was what I deserved.”

“You didn’t, you really didn’t.”

A weighty press lays into the back of Branch’s head and the sudden grip at his shoulders nearly tosses him off balance. He grounds himself against wanting to see Creek’s face. His voice is sincere, he can’t stand seeing the same emotion be so raw and honest in those dark eyes. It’ll break him to his core.

“Branch, you didn’t,” Creek repeats and squeezes Branch’s shoulders, voice muffled in black hair. He shudders and whispers, “you should have confided in me. I would have been your solution.”

“It wouldn’t have been enough.” Fingertips dig angrily into his skin. “There is no solution. I accepted that long ago.”

“There always is.”

“No there isn’t,” Branch says, almost snaps. His tone lessens and his hands coming up of its own accord to clutch at one of them clinging to him. It’s with mild reluctance he intertwines their fingers and quakes to his core. He’s letting out far too much. It’s scaring him. “I don’t want to live in false hope. It’s better to be practical/”

“I’ve dealt with it all this time.”

“I’m not you.”

“I never wanted you to be anything other than who you used to be. I want this Branch gone. . . Please.” Creek’s teeth grind in desperation. “Please bring that one back to me. Bring back the one I used to know.”

Branch lowers his hand. He chuckles bitterly and reclines into Creek’s face. His chest feels so heavy. “He’s dead. . .”

Creek’s arms hesitate a spell, then slowly begin to encircle Branch’s shoulders.

He acts fast, scrambling to his feet, looking terrified at the purple troll. Branch shakes his head, “Just stop,” he whispers and turns to walk to his room.

Creek watches him leave, doesn’t have the energy to stop him walking away. He sits on the floor and puts his hands in his face. He knows that. By Mother Destiny, he’s always known that part of Branch has withered to nothingness. He’s been gone forever, and Creek stupidly clung to the pretense that it’d be so easy to draw him back.

And he knows, that even if Branch’s exterior has changed, his perceptions have altered, it doesn’t stop Creek from secretly wishing it weren’t true.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *slowly crawls away*


	10. What Destiny Brings Anew

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very, very, very long chapter to accommodate the wait. My apologies. Please enjoy and excuse any mistakes.

**What Destiny Brings Anew**

 

Branch sprawls full-length on his belly across his bedspread next to an old worn collage of pictures he’d sown together during one of his darkest days. That’d been early in his life when the grief was fresh and hung above him like the shadow of a storm refusing to drift away. So young and so lost in his despair, Branch tried numerous times to find an ounce of happiness to cling to, maybe something to help bandage the wound in his heart. But it’d been difficult.

To have your heart broken so many times like that. . .

Branch curls into himself, stretching out a hand to finger the faces of all the family he’s lost; some faces he’s never seen a day in his life outside of the pictures. His father and mother for example; he’s never seen them. Funnily enough, his birthday falls on Trollstice. How ironic is it to be born on the day that’s marked as the most horrible day in all troll history? But in the present, it’s reflected upon as a day of new beginnings and change. 

He’s tried to view as such, but it feels more like a curse. It’s why he’s never bothered ever telling anyone when it is. Branch is already grey. Do they need anymore of a reason to be wary of him? He can’t give them satisfaction.

He’s been holed up in his room for a week, never once coming out for anything. Branch can’t stomach seeing the pity and regret in Creek’s eyes. Oh, he’s heard the jerk leave a few times, even listened to when he’d come down the stairs and pause at Branch’s door, seeming to contemplate whether to demand he show himself or to-to something. There’s no telling with that guy.

Branch sighs and rolls up into an upright sit and begins to rearrange his collage into a single stack. It’s no different from the design of Poppy’s, a foldable device that he made her once. He fashioned his own to collapse into several different shapes and sizes, all of which can fit with in hand or shirt pocket if need be without damaging the pictures. As he does, one picture finds itself rising to the top of the rest and it’s incredibly strange that he’s completely forgotten about this part of his life. . .

He grabs the picture, studying over the older troll holding him in their arms.

How could he have forgotten this? There had been someone else to care for him, this troll that’d saved his life when others had forgotten he was there. Branch frowns in thought. He can’t imagine what he may think of Branch now. He’d left his home so abruptly without rhyme or reason. Since then, Branch can count on one hand how many times he’s spoken to this troll and each time, he’s been the most pleasant and charming fellow ever.

And here Branch has only given him a bunch of lip and attitude and moody answers.

Branch completes the collages’ folding and tucks it in his hair. Maybe he should consider going for a visit. He could use someone to talk to. If his old friend is willing, maybe Branch can get some advice on what to do with this tension between him and Creek. Branch would give anything to reset time and take them back to their arguing and sarcastic batter.

He gets dressed in a new set of clothes; fitted dark tan cargo shorts, and a sleeveless periwinkle V-neck shirt.

Branch uses a strip of hair to skim his dresser until finding a comb. He brings it over and plops it in his hand. Then he starts dividing his hair into sections the way Creek showed him before.

Managing his hair’s nowhere near as complicated as it used to be. Combing it every other day’s taken the strain out of his arms and his neck doesn’t get that painful ache.

And if he wants to be somewhat honest with himself, he likes the way it looks now. Creek’s still a jerk, but he is on to something about this whole priming thing. His hair’s shinier, almost a silkier texture, not as fluffy as it once was. It felt nice to be noticed for it too. . . even if that one troll is Creek.

Branch finishes, and prepares to leave, running his fingers through his hair for good measure. It doesn’t hurt to add more volume, right? He doesn’t think so. Branch opens his door and Creek’s fist is up and ready to knock.

Creek steps back, visibly stunned. Branch does the same, looking away.

“Branch,” Creek starts, eyes skating over him. “Going out?”

Branch nods.

“Oh,” Creek breathes. Branch sees Creek’s lips thin in displeasure. “I suppose it’ll be too much to ask where and if its anything I can get for you?”

Branch lifts his eyes to Creek’s then goes back to the floor. “I need some air,” he says simply. “Unless you plan to suck some in and give it to me—” He stops right there before it gets any weirder and clears his throat. “Don’t take that the wrong way. I mean, um,” he scratches behind his head. “Look, I just wanna get outta the pod for a while. Is that alright with you?”

“Sure, of course.” Creek steps to the side.

Branch blinks, caught completely off guard. “OK.” He takes a step, pauses, thinks, then sighs. This—whatever it is, it’s too strange. He just can’t with it. “We don’t have to, ya know,” he rubs behind his neck again. He’s sure to get a rash at this rate. “be all awkward and stuff around each other. I know we said things to one another. . .”

They’re the only jumbled words he can push out, being all shocked out of his wits by Creek’s complacency. It just doesn’t suit the persona Branch has adapted to over the years. He isn’t half sure he’s saying it to Creek or himself. Safe bet that it’s himself. He can’t even look Creek in the eyes.

“You know we can’t ignore what was discussed,” says Creek. “Pretending it didn’t happen will only stall answers.”

“I’m not interested in finding any. I know enough to get by.”

Creek tilts his head to the side and softly asks, “How can you be content to live like that?”

Branch lets out a breath of irritated resignation. “You eventually get tired of getting your hopes up on hearing what you want. When all you ever get is negativity it’s easy. . .” Branch sighs hard, shaking his head slightly and folds his arms. “I don’t wanna talk about this.”

Creek continues to watch him with oddly measuring eyes. Then he blinks, and nods. “Alright, we won’t. Not until you’re ready.”

“I won’t be,” Branch insists.

For a moment there, Creek's lips curl upwards at the corners. Branch just bristles with indignation.

“What?” he bites off.

Creek’s smile widens.

Branch’s belly becomes a tsunami of flutters traveling through his veins like a flurry of wings. His hand unknowingly rises to brush against his chest. He pouts at Creek’s chuckling and promptly flips him off because anything he dares laugh at is sure to be detrimental to one’s self-esteem.

“You look handsome today, Branch.”

Annoyance pulses as wildly as the flitters now cascading in throes in his chest and stomach. “Shut up,” he grunts, turning around to go. “I’ll see you when I come back.”

“Branch?”

Branch stops and looks over his shoulder.

“When can I expect you back?” Creek coolly questions, wearing that aggravating smirk of his. “So I can see whether I should prep for lunch or dinner,” he adds before Branch has a chance to say something snarky.

Branch’s mouth clamps shut. His face envelops in the brightest color red and he shrugs. “Later this afternoon, probably.”

“Any preferences?”

“God, Creek,” groans Branch. “I really don’t like this.”

“Like what?”

“This—you!” Branch drags his hands over his eyes. “You’re being all nice and domestic. Geez, stop already. I’m gonna gag here.”

“Oh?’ Creek innocently bats his eyes. “Would you prefer I be cruel and degrading of your character? Oh my, Branch, you naughty thing. . . Dare I believe you have some rather,” Creek clears his throat, “questionable kinks?”

“Oh boy, do you have nerves of iron, pal!” Branch whips around fully, jutting a finger. “I wasn’t the one drunk off his butt saying—”

“Yes?”

“You said—”

“HmMm?” Creek curls a finger under his chin, eyelids hanging over and Branch’s chest feels like it’s about to explode with so much softness.

His cheeks warm so hot, it feels close to melting. He growls and spins on his heel. “I’ll see you later.” Shoulders stiff, he barges through the door and slams it close, narrowly missing Creek’s laughter.

 

The way to get through to that stubborn troll is patience and understanding; two traits Creek severely lacked over the years when it came to Branch.

Their conversation brought a new ray of light to multitude of things to consider. There’s a lot more to be rediscovered and valued with the trolls they’ve grown into over the years. Branch had been right. The personality he possessed as a child has changed into what he is today due to the horrible circumstances cycling around his past.

The week-long silence between them has awaken a sensible part of Creek he wishes had been there sooner. In the wake of learning his mistake with Apollo and now this. . .well, he supposes it’s high time he views his and Branch’s relationship differently than what he used to. It never had to be an inconvenience. That troublesome nonsense could have been avoided had they acted like the adults they are.

But, there’s time to make amends and whether it ends with them being at the very least pleasant towards one another, that’ll do for the time being.

They can work on fixing their friendship later.

Creek smiles and rubs his hands together. Now then. There’s the task of fixing their meal. And what better way to get on any troll’s good side is with a healthy serving of their favorite meal.

Everyone’s starring is irking him.

He thought affecting an ignorance to the villager’s gawking would give him some semblance of aloofness, but no, the exact opposite occurs. More trolls have approached them, striking up conversations and complimenting his appearance. He isn’t halfway through the village before the anxiety of being crowded becomes unbearable and he starts to sprint his way past anyone who looks ready to snatch him in the folds of another drawn out chat.

When he reaches the west edge of the village, Branch doubles over, breathless and on the verge of coughing out a lung. He can’t understand how any of them can stand being that way. Goodness and he’d caught them in the middle of Hug Time? Branch didn’t think he’d escape that nightmare.

Taking a deep breath, he exhales and straightens. Reasons why he prefers for the village’s outer perimeter is because the elder trolls and those with small children reside here to avoid the rumbustious music and partying. They participate on their own time. The pods here hang lower to the ground to accommodate the trollings and elders who don’t have the ability to summon their roots as teens or trolls in their prime.

The pod Branch is looking for dangles from a neatly woven set of uniquely cultivated vines, limp tree limbs and hair. It’s the strangest support and as Branch thinks on it more, he’s learned a whole bunch of resourcefulness from this troll. Seems his casual visit with his old guardian is more overdo then he realizes.

When he arrives below, Branch stretches his hair high to knock on the door. It hadn’t occurred to Branch until now that Sawyer might be back in the village manning his flower shop with Charmy. He doesn’t have to guess for too much longer.

The front door opens to Sawyer poking his head out to look below. His eyes brighten so gleefully, Branch visibly winches for having neglected his old guardian for so long.

“Branch, what a surprise, I can’t believe you’re way out here!”

“Uh, yeah, what’s up Sawyer?”

“The sky is!” Sawyer gushes and laughs. “What brings you here?”

Branch lips his bottom lip, pocketing his hands and toes the ground. “I thought I’d. . . um, come by for a visit.”

“Splendid!” Sawyer ducks his head inside for a spell. “Gimme a moment!”

Branch squints up. “If it’s a problem, I can come back another time.”

“Nonsense!” Plumes of dust suddenly explode out the door. Sawyer pops back out, dust coating his glasses. He chuckles, “Come on up. I just need to tidy around a bit. It’s a disaster in here. I’d hate for you to come into a dirty living room.” He withdraws into the pod without another word.

Branch smiles a bit. It’s like he remembers as a trolling. Sawyer’s fascination with plants and soil has often left his entire pod resembling a giant mud pit, garden, or jungle depending on what his subject of study currently was. There was never a dull day with him.

Branch latches some strands on the pod stem and hauls himself up. He steps inside and takes a moment to absorb the jungle-like environment. Every square inch of the living space is a euphoriant morass of plant life. This pod’s always been a large one with a drab, tile floor Branch remembers was easiest to clean on the days Sawyer went completely bonkers with bringing back harvests. It’s changed a bit from what he’d been raised in for those couple of years. The once plain white walls are ornamented with paintings and picture frames.

There’s a small collection of photos nestled in the corner of the living room amongst a horde of hanging Bluebells and dangling Humming Blooms. Branch makes a small noise to acknowledge Sawyer’s chattering in the background whilst stalking over to the photos and grabs one in each hand.

He keeps his face averted, studying over the images of himself as a small trolling with his arms wrapped around Sawyer’s neck and another of them during a camping trip in Weeping Willows. He looks up when he’s sure he can control his expression.

Sawyer’s standing in the entrance leading to his kitchen with a silver tray holding a flora tea set. He nods towards the photos. “I see you found my treasure trove.” Sawyer goes to where vines drape in braided treads several feet above the couch and loveseat. He pats the space next to him.

Branch doesn’t move. “You kept these all this time?” He shakes his head. “Why?”

Branch hears liquid pouring into two cups. “Why would I get rid of them? Those were some of the happiest moments in my life.”

“Really?”

“Aye. . . I regret not taking more pictures. If I’d known you were days away from leaving, I would’ve captured every single day you stayed.”

Branch feels himself flush and returns the frames on the lamp stand. “I don’t remember a whole lot.” He stares at the spread of countless moments captured while in his innocence and each one holds those rare occasions where it appears happiness is within his grasp. He can’t control the shaking in his hands and wrings them, nervously. “I can go,” he whispers.

The glass clinks. Branch flinches. A long, tired sigh is heard and feels so like it’ll be Sawyer’s last.

“If you want to, I won’t stop you. I didn’t twenty years ago, I won’t this time either.”

Branch rubs his right arm and chances turning around.

Sawyer’s hunched forward, clasping his hands in a ball quivering like his bottom lip. He’s like Branch, Branch realizes, unable to fully meet his eyes for fear of ruining the persona he’s kept up all these years. But they differ. Sawyer’s always been able to reveal his emotions and not hold back. For Branch, he’s keep it bottled up so long, the slightest crack will shatter him inside and out. He’s suddenly regretting coming here. Something tells him he won’t walk out feeling the way he had coming in.

“I’ve watched you off and on over the years grow into a fine young troll,” Sawyer mutters throatily and chuckles. “It’s remarkable how you matured without anyone’s help. You can hunt, fish, cultivate the land and invent the most amazing devices.”

Branch’s lips turn up a little. “You taught me all of that stuff.”

“Don’t be so modest. What you learned from me can barely scratch the mountain of knowledge you obtained on your own.” Sawyer pauses, and finally looks over to Branch. He smiles warmly and pats the space next to him again. “If you want to go,” he offers thickly, “it’s fine. You can visit here anytime. I would love that. Seeing you come through my door after all these years. . .,” he shudders a bit and smiles wider, the strain curving his cheekbones into his eyes, “. . . it’s as if I rediscovered hope all over again.”

Branch’s jaw tightens. He yields nonetheless and slowly goes to sit a cushion’s space away from Sawyer and sinks into the couch’s corner. Sawyer chuckles under his breath and passes Branch a cup of freshly brewed lemon tea. “Here. Mind the cup, it’s hot.”

“Thanks.” Branch sips it twice, swallowing and hums. “Not bad. Tea and mint leaves?”

“And shaved lemon rinds with a pinch of—”

“Cinnamon,” they echo as one and Branch feels a tiny laugh bubble out of his throat.

 Branch licks the froth from his top lip. “It’s really good.”

“This time,” says Sawyer. “We’re lucky. The last batch was terribly bitter. Charmy used both of our toothbrushes the scrub the taste off her tongue.”

“Where is she now?”

“Seeing my fathers. Speaking of whom, they mentioned seeing Creek at the shops.”

Branch shakes his head. “I wouldn’t know. We don’t exactly communicate to one another about each other’s whereabouts.” Though, thinking back, that’s the half-truth. Creek’s been the one more worried about where Branch goes and even tells Branch where he’s going.

“How have things been between you two?” Sawyer leans forward for the tea pot and tops off his cup. “Fine at the very least since you’re sitting here without sighs of physical trauma.”

“They’ve gotten better,” Branch answers, surprising himself and Sawyer. “We, um, tolerate each other.”

“Well, thank God for small miracles.”

They elapse into a silence only marginally less tense then the previous one. Branch’s brows draw together after it goes on longer then he’s comfortable with. He puts his cup on the saucer and sits back, dragging his moist palms along his shorts. “Sawyer?”

“Hmm?”

“The reason I came over is, I mean, the truth is. . .” Branch strokes behind his head, ruffling his hair. “I want to apologize.”

“What on earth for?” Sawyer softly questions.

“For neglecting to tell you thanks for taking care of me as a kid.”

“You needn’t thank me, Branch. I did what any sensible adult would.”

“I’m not talking about other adults. You were the only one who remembered I existed during the Great Escape.” It’s almost unfair how radically cruel how much that singular memory causes his throat to close. “If it hadn’t been for you—”

“Don’t hold it against the others for what happened,” Sawyer sounds strange saying that, like a hollowing in his tone. “We were all so desperate for freedom that day. So many were left behind or captured, none of us thought about who we grabbed who or helped. You. . . happened to be in my thoughts.”

“I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you.”

“I suppose in an odd sort of way, I can attest to that,” he says complacently and reaches out to pat Branch’s knee. “I don’t regret anything though. Raising you was the highlight of my life. I’d hoped to—keep it going on forever.”

Branch scoots from under his touch, shaking his head again. “You didn’t need me muckin’ up your life. Wasn’t your life better after I left?”

“Of course not!” Sawyer exclaims. “Branch, don’t you know how disappointing it was for me and Charmy? . . . Charmy would have adored you.”

“You two were going to have your own trollings. I didn’t want to get in the way of that.”

“What possessed you to believe that?” Sawyer narrows his eyes. “Have I ever let on to you being a burden? Even once? If so, tell me and I’ll gladly apologize for each time.”

“N-no, never.”

“Then what—” Sawyer slinks back as if struck across the face and his eyes thin to paper slits when a thought visibly dawns on him and Branch worries the older troll’s eyes may fall from his sockets. “Dear Branch . . . how the devil could I have been so blind until today?”

Branch looks away to stare at the patterns in the tile flooring, connecting the webbing wisps of white and blues. Fingers curve under his chin and direct his eyes up into concerned, crinkled eyes. He avoids looking directly into Sawyers gaze.

“You thought I wouldn’t love you anymore after Charmy and I got together, was that it?”

“You were better off without me.”

“Don’t say that!” Sawyer takes him by the arms and yanks Branch close. “How could you know? You left, remember?”

Branch lifts his eyes to gape openly. Then he snorts, shrugging Sawyer’s grip away. “I didn’t come here to go down memory lane with you. I came to say thanks, and I did, so I’ll go.” Branch makes to stand. “Thanks for the tea.”

“Wait!”

Branch pauses, looking strangely at Sawyer when he raised his voice as fast as he shot up to his feet.

“Wait,” Sawyers lowers his tone, cautiously motioning for Branch sit. “Before you leave, I want to show you something. I’ve been meaning to show you this for years. The opportunity just never presented itself until now.” He leaves before Branch has the chance to protest.

Branch isn’t left waiting long. In the span of time it took Sawyer to leave, Branch had every chance to bolt out of there and resume life to how it had been. But the same feeling of change still buzzed in his chest like the stir of boiling water to steam; warming and tingling.

“I’d only needed two more days,” Sawyer announces upon return. Branch looks up at him to find the older troll with a sealed manila folder tucked under his arms. Sawyer retakes his seat alongside Branch and passes him the thick package. “Father said I needed a full year of evaluations, payments and council before I could have it legalized.”

Branch fingered over the dark font spelling his name: BRANCH.

But it’s the underlined portion that has his throat closing tight.

“Son of Sawyer and Charmy,” he chokes out, shuddering. His vision swims, the writing becoming black squiggles. Branch clutches the folders edges, “What’s this?” he sharply demands.

Sawyer looks up at his face again, eyes so quick, Branch feels as thought they’re pins driving into his heart, as though he’s the little fireflies staked to a poster. He licks his lips and straightens, chin high and eyes hard through his glasses. “It’s exactly as it reads,” he says. “I had everything ready to go. Me and Charmy had your room prepared with new toys, school clothes and plans for a trip through the forest.”

Branch hugs to the folder to his chest. “W-when?”

“Everything was complete two days before your birthday. Charmy and I wanted it to be a surprise for your fourth birthday. We just hadn’t believed you’d run away before then.”

Branch’s eyes fluttered rapidly to chase off the hot sting. It doesn’t help. The tears hang on the edge of his lashes, and glide across his eyes. “You were going to uh-to uh. . .” His throat works down a sour lump.

Sawyer’s hand moves. It creeps slowly across the space between them, as if it’s an insect. Branch sees it in silence out of the corner of his eye and doesn’t move when it finally touches, except to raise his eyes to Sawyer’s.

“I never knew how to tell you afterwards,” he says and shrugs. “I just assumed you didn’t want a family as much as us.”

Branch must look down at the floor to control his emotions. Maybe he’s a little more choked than planned, unable to force words out through the shield of fear and doubt. Dare he hope to believe that he’d had a chance like that and . . . he missed it? He isn’t sure what hurts him worst, learning of it now, or narrowing dodging the great chance at starting anew?

“I still want to,” says Sawyer.

Branch immediately squeezes the older troll’s hand with all his might and holds his breath.

Sawyer raises Branch’s shared hands to his lips. Branch shuts his eyes tight, doubling forward and the sound to sneak out of his mouth startles him. “But I . . . I’ve been gone,” he manages out, brokenly. “I’m older—”

“Yes, I know,” Sawyer closes and opens his eyes as well. “I watched you grow up from afar. I wish I could have had more of a hand in raising you.”

“You did so much for me already.”

“It wasn’t as a favor, Branch. I wanted to. You,” Sawyer chuckles sweetly, “you were the best thing to ever come into my life.”

Branch bends forward so far, his brow bumps his knees. “I-I’m sorry—so sorry.”

“Here, here, now, shhh.”

Branch lets himself get pulled into his first embrace in twenty years. He expected very little to happen from this visit; maybe a small conversation to catch up on what’s occurred in the other troll’s life or promises to scheduling future get togethers. Never, ever did Branch anticipate anything of this magnitude to corrupt his life. Without realizing it, Sawyer’s left a burn on Branch’s soul he’s only just now discovering was there. And it hurts so wonderfully.

“I still want to try,” Sawyer gently repeats, stroking a hand down Branch’s back. “If you’ll have us, I’d love to go through with it.”

Branch gasps and pulls away, stunned. He wipes his eyes and says, “Even as I am?”

“Oh Branch, you silly lad.” Sawyer uses his sleeve to clean Branch’s tears away. “We may not have talked as much, but I never stopped loving you as a son. I’ll love to be your father and Charmy will be more than happy to hear you call her mother. Or whatever you’re comfortable with.”

Branch rises to his feet and brings Sawyer with him because he doesn’t want to ever know what its like to live his life without a father again. “Yes, yes, yes,” he whispers, muffled into Sawyer’s shoulder. “I-I’m so glad you still love me.”

“I never stopped.” He leans more into Branch’s embrace and squeezes him close.

Branch has all the sweetness he could ever want and a small ray of hope blooming from within.

“So, then.” Sawyer pulls back a bit to clear his throat and show the redness developing in his eyes as well. “I guess we have a great deal of catching up to do. Good thing I already made tea, eh?”

“Yeah,” chuckles Branch, wiping his eyes. He pats Sawyer’s chest and adds, “Guess we can start with the Fear Bunker, and my dealings with Creek?”

Sawyer’s eyes sparkle. “I look forward to hearing every detail,” his eyes twinkle more, “son.”

Branch starts, and a slow, little smile builds. “Thanks, Pop.”

Branch left Sawyer’s feeling the lightest he has since his grandmother’s death.

The thought doesn’t have the same wicked backlash against his heart now. He doesn’t dwell on it as much in case the same results from before do appear.

The walk through the village doesn’t feel as suffocating. He can practically walk on air. He waves back, strikes up a short conversation or two that leaves an audience of onlookers perplexed as to the sudden change in their residential grey troll. He spares the surprised ones’ a nod and quick flicks of his hand. But the ominous internal clock in his brain warns of an impending Hug Time and while his time with Sawyer has severely lightened his spirit, he’s not changed his dislike for crowds and group affection.

He arrives to Creek’s pod and steps inside, quietly announcing his arrival. “Creek, you in?”

“Kitchen!”

“Is that right?” Branch secures the door behind him. “No wonder it smells like burnt feet in here.”

Creek’s head pops around the bend, outraged. “I’ll have you know that I slaved over this meal for your sake and out of the kindness of my heart. Trust an ungrateful numbskull like you—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” grumbles Branch. He waltzes into the kitchen, spying bread, an assortment of sliced vegetables and meats. He lifts an eyebrow towards Creek. “What poor creature did you murder for this?”

“Hmmph, shows what you know.” Creek rolls his eyes and goes back to sinking a knife through a large strawberry. “None of these are real meat products. They’re alternatives. I can’t stand the smell of fried flesh, but I can tolerate these just fine.” He chops three more times and slides the berry to the side. “And by the way, a thanks would be much appreciated since this is actually your job. You’ve been a piss-poor excuse for a Submissive Partner.”

“You’re right, you do deserve gratitude. So, thanks for the effort.”

The knife crashes hard to the floor as Creek whirls around to pin Branch with an iron glare. “I’m sorry, you’re a tad far off. What was that?”

Branch bypasses Creek to kneel and pluck the knife from the floor. He stands and goes to wash it off at the sink. “I said, thanks for the effort. You’re right, this is my job. So, you can go chill and I’ll finish up in here?”

“I’ll, uh, no. I can do it.”

“You’re sure?”

“Aye, very.”

“Hmmkay.” Branch finishes cleaning the blade and lays it next to Creek’s chopping block. He nods to him and says, “Call me if you need help or whatever,” then leaves.

“Right.”

Branch’s aware of Creek’s eyes digging through the back of his head and fights against the urge to snicker. It serves the stuck-up troll right for being so fussy, but this is funny. He never thought he could get a reaction like that out of Creek.

Branch’s on the verge of bouncing on his toes. He can’t remember the last time he’s felt so-so giddy.

He wonders if he can knock him out of his element more.

They share their meal, same as usual, except the atmosphere’s slightly tense and the silence a tangible ring.

Creek thoughtfully chewed his food and in between bites, often met Branch’s odd gaze and even odder, a half-attempt at a smile or something that has his mouth looking all lop-sided. It’s disturbingly pleasant, this, whatever it is settling in. But he’s on guard. He can’t blame himself for feeling offset when it seems so random for Branch to be behaving in a cordial manner.

When Branch leans back in his seat, absently crunching his way through a bowl of salted seeds, his eyes curl up to the ceiling and the last thing Creek expects him to say has him reeling. “I want you to take me shopping.”

Creek nearly drops a hand to grip the side of his chair, before he remembers how that would look to Branch. He steals a glance at the grey troll for the longest, waiting for when the punchline to this joke will reveal itself.

But he’s only met with an indifferent stare and Branch returning to pick the shells off his next handful of seeds.

“You can’t be serious,” Creek deadpans. “Why?”

Branch shrugs, “You’re my dominant. It’s your job.”

“Naturally, but since when are you complacent?”

“I’m not.”

“Exactly!”

“But I still need new clothes.”

“I . . . Right. OK, then.” Creek drums his fingers over the table. “Be honest here, are you ill? Perhaps a tad off your rocker?”

“No more than usual by your standards,” Branch says briskly and sips some water. He keeps a sharp look over the rim of his glass at Creek. “If you don’t want to, I can always invite Apollo—”

“Not necessary,” Creek swiftly interjects. “You and me going will suffice. We can, um, leave immediately after lunch.”

There goes that bizarre thing with his mouth again.

“Thanks, Creek.” Branch rises to his feet. “I’m going to go wash up. I’ll take care of the dishes.”

Then he breezes past and Creek’s unable to avoid spinning around with his mind screaming violently, wondering who on earth is that troll walking down his hallway and what has he done with Branch?

There’s so much whispering and gawking and obvious stumbles at seeing them walk side by side into the Meadow Shop’s lowest floor clothing shops. Creek’s more than accustom to the attention and adopts his usual haughty strut down the widen, high arch aisles.

As for Branch, well, he’s doing his best. Creek gives the lad points for sticking it out this long when it’s so painful to watch him try and not tell off the trolls watching him so closely.

“Guess they’re surprised to see us being civil for a change.”

Creek agrees. “I don’t know whether to be annoyed that they’re this invested in our lives or impressed.”

“It’s your fault.”

 _‘Of course you’d think so,’_ Creek thinks, managing to keep from rolling his eyes because he has a lot of experience with Branch’s mood swings by this point. The grey troll’s temperamental and impatient and attracted to thoughts of oppression and pessimism and demands order, but heavens forbid Creek mention any of these traits to the grey troll’s face. They’ve done well to make it this far into the shops without stirring a dramatic scene.

“You insisted on wanting a new wardrobe,” Creek reminds. “Or are you backing out now because you can’t handle being the center of attention?”

“You’re my dominant and you have decent taste in clothes.”

Creek finally shoots Branch a hard look. “That being the case, why didn’t you trust me to chose them for you? You didn’t have to come along.”

“Maybe I wanted the both of us to come here instead of being cooped in the pod all the time? Sheesh, you’re welcome.”

Creek pauses and glares at him. “No need to take that tone with me. The only reason you’re so snippy is because of the shirt, isn’t it?”

Branch sniffs and looks the other way. “I was fine wearing my own clothes, jerk. You ever stop to think that might be why everyone’s staring at us? They’re gonna get the wrong impression if I’m seen wearing your junk.”

“What wrong impression? That you suddenly developed a sense of a fashion?”

“No, that I suddenly developed an infatuation for you!”

“Like you haven’t.”

“In your delusional dreams.”

“Which I know I’ve frequented at least twice in your life time.”

Branch waves his hand in front of his nose. “Keep it up and you’ll have the whole joint stinkin’ of your ego.”

Creek snorts indignantly. “Whatever you bloody savage.”

“Pfft, stuck-up troll.”

Creek shoots him a look in sync to Branch returning it with as much ferocity, but Creek notes a lack of actual heat behind Branch’s comebacks. They’re almost casual, not as potent with animosity. Perhaps Creek is the one really off his rocker for thinking this.

There’s a low stone staircase leading into a shop called Buried Treasures, so called for the earth shrouded roof and walls structured with natural marble and packed clay. There are high windows in the walls that look out on higher levels of the Meadow Shops. The dim strings of sunshine filtering in is carefully arranged to always spotlight on their latest creations with mirrors and artificial fuel from firefly fluids. Shoes, ties, various shirts and pants, informal, formal, if it’s made to be worn, it’s sold here.

The shopkeeper himself is a tall fellow, with dark green hair, grey eyes and lustrous blue skin that bespeaks more than a trace of Glitter Troll blood. Creek’s been loyal to this particular store since it’s opening. He, Poppy and Guy Diamond wear by this fellow’s exquisite taste and Creek doesn’t doubt he’ll leave here disappointed. Branch either.

“Creek, darling, your radiance blinds me!”

“Cecil, how are you, love?”

The two trolls meet in the center of the store and share air kisses.

Cecil pinches Creek’s cheek and wags his finger. “Shame on you. Shame, shame, shame. Ever since you settled down, you’ve been MIA and I’ve been forced to serve these drabby trolls. Honey, I design clothes for Gods, not commoners. Even Poppy’s abandoned me!”

“I can’t apologize for following my instincts.” Creek leaves it at that and steps to the side, holding out his hand. Branch hesitantly grasps it and lets himself be pulled forward. “Cecil, you know Branch, our village idiot.”

“Ah, the residual grump. We’ve met,” giggles Cecil. “Thanks again for the silk worm treads, darling. As you can see,” Cecil gives a wide sweep of his shop’s endless displays, “the supply has been put to beneficial use. I have delighted customers leave here with quality materials every day.”

Branch blushes a bit. “You’re welcome.”

“Aww, isn’t he a cutie? Will you two be needing any help at all? I certainly wouldn’t mind dressing up your friend here.”

Creek squeezes Branch’s hand. “Not today, chum. I have it but be on standby in case we can use a second opinion.”

“Oh, I see.” Cecil winks. “Wanting to keep this handsome boy to yourself? Not that I blame you. Grey he may be, but that’s not a thing wrong with that face. Me-ow!”

Branch’s entire face erupts into a dark color as he stubbornly looks somewhere else.

Creek chuckles and pulls him towards a ring of clothes, flipping through multiple colored shirts and shorts, muttering.

Branch looks curiously at Creek’s hand holding his and gently tries to tug it free. Creek’s grasp tightens and they’re off to another selection.

“You can let go,” Branch says.

“I know, but you look ready to bolt,” Creek absently replies, while plucking two shirts off the hangers. “Promise me you won’t, and you’ll be freed.”

“I can’t help it.” Branch pouts. “That guy’s weird. And he smells all sweet and chocolatey.”

“Cecil’s harmless. Here, try these on.”

Branch’s arms are suddenly full of clothes. He looks at them strangely. “How do you know my size?”

Creek cocks an eyebrow, eyes amusingly shifty. “I may have looked you over on our way here.”

Silence permeates the air between them. Branch is grateful no customers are in the store with them. “You’re a freak,” he grumbles, roughly bumping Creek’s shoulder in passing to the dressing rooms. “Watchin’ me he says, pfft.” He pauses outside the door and glares over his shoulder. “You better not check out my butt either.”

It’s Creek’s turn to glow red. “Get over yourself, I wouldn’t stare as much if it didn’t jiggle. Ever heard of a Stair Master?”

“I dunno, have you ever heard of push-a-ways?” Branch gives him a slow once over. “Your gut’s looking mighty flaccid, pally.” And he disappears into the room with a rough bark of laughter.

Creek shakes his head. That troll always has to have the last word. While Branch tries on his own clothes, Creek goes to roam the store for a few choices of his own. He’s been meaning to broaden his attire for some time. Now’s the perfect excuse to pick some things out for himself.

Maybe Branch as well. Just a couple of more items to compliment his bland color.

“Creek?”

Creek huffs. “Yes?”

“Don’t sound like you’re tired of me all ready.” Branch emerges from the dressing room in the first outfit Creek chose; a sky-blue V-neck sleeveless shirt, a pair of dirty buck colored linen pants and a silver sash around his waist. “Nothing about this screams _‘me_ ’.”  He looks at Creek, expectantly.

Creek looks appropriately like the kind of fellow used to appraising fine art and leaves the rack of clothes he’d been browsing to go inspect Branch. He motions for Branch to turn in place and curls a finger under his chin in thought. He moves forward, tucking the shirt in, then pulling it out and steps back.

“The colors compliment your complexion well enough, but the sash doesn’t provide the glamour I wanted.”

Branch flushes. “I said I wanted clothes for _myself_ , not something to impress you!”

Creek shrugs a shoulder. “It’s practically the same. Lose the sash.” He whips it off Branch before he has the chance and spins Branch to face one of the dozen vanity mirrors station around the shop. “There now. You’re on the start to something very. . . very dazzling.”

His voice is mildly pitched a guttural sound towards the end and Branch feels a flicker deep in his chest start to spasm in odd places. Branch mentally shakes his head to get his mind off, and says, “So this one’s a keeper?”

“It is.”

Creek sounds like he’s speaking more to himself. Branch clears his throat to grab Creek’s attention since he looks like he’s looking through their shared reflection. The flicker’s more like a thump and rub of dozens of little fingers around his pectorals. Branch absently rubs over the points most ticklish and steps around Creek to re-enter the dressing room.

He shuts the door and locks it. That had been a little bit weird. He grunts and wipes a hand over his face, the same one that keeps straying back to pat at the tingling in his chest. It’s irritating and he can’t for the life of him figure out why it comes and goes so randomly. Well, not super irritating. He has bouts of feeling all warm and fuzzy inside, like there’s serenity and tranquility all over the place.

Branch changes out of the clothes and grabs the next set of clothes on a hanger and dons them over his head. None of these are really him. He does like the previous one though. It doesn’t feel as cramped and constricting as he thought it would.

When he exits, Creek’s looking into his hands, frowning hard like the tips of them were the most offensive points. “How’s this one look?”

Creek’s head snap up. He climbs to his feet, eyes skating from the top of Branch’s hair to the pads of his toes. This time, Branch has on a cropped burnish red and brown low collar vest with a plain white t-shirt and black fitted slacks.

“How do you like it?” Creek’s voice is distant.

“Better than the last one.” Branch twists in place and gives the vest a tug. “They fit alright. You really know your stuff. I still can’t believe you know my size.”

Creek stirs as if he’s coming out of a trance and looks at Branch. “I imagine you’re just as familiar with my body?”

Branch’s gaze flares like his cheeks, for some reason, and not with anger. “Y-yeah, close to mine, except you’re thicker around the chest.”

“And how would you know that, I wonder?” Creek cheekily questions, folding his arms. “You’ll have to be paying very, very close attention to my body.”

“Dude, you prance around the village daily without a shirt. Anybody with half sense could make the same assumption.” Branch blinks, then hotly adds, “While we’re on the topic of creepy, hmmm, who is it that was able to pick out these clothes without asking my size? Seems to me you have some suspicious tendencies yourself.”

“Oh, silly Branch, your self-perception is so dry.”

Branch dully lowers his eyes. “Your sarcasm is refreshing.” He snaps his fingers and strikes a pose. “As if you don’t look.”

Creek tosses his head back and laughs a charming chime. The contagious noise has Branch smiling a little. “The same can be said for you,” Creek says when he sobers. “I like that outfit too. Go try on the last one.”

“Why don’t you try on something?”

Creek jerks a thumb behind himself. “Cecil’s already grabbing a few for me. He started as soon as we arrived. Against my wishes.” He sighs, turning to head towards the front of the shop. “I’ll have mine on by the time you try on the last.”

“Alright.” Branch watches Creek a spell, subtly feeling lighter and at ease. This is the longest conversation they’ve had where insults and fists aren’t exchanged. It’s like their heated fight hadn’t happened at all. It’s just them being here, being casual and civil. It’s—it’s nice.

He goes back into the dressing room to arrange for the last outfit and holds it up.

A smile spreads the widest it ever has across his face. He can’t understand why Creek would pick this one out, but Creek’s reactions to each outfit have been interesting.

Branch hums. He wonders what Creek will say to this one. . .

It’s so much easier to talk to Branch when Creek isn’t feeling tongue-tied.

By Mother Destiny, something’s gone sorely wrong with his psyche. How, when and why would the thoughts of Branch being—attractive start to blindside him like this? If he could blame it on the Destiny Bloom’s influence he gladly would, but he’s no fool. The bloom merely pairs the trolls together based on it’s instinctual ability to know who fits with who best. The rest falls on the trolls.

And for Creek to find Branch’s body appealing in these clothes. . . Creek slaps his face, hard, ignoring Cecil’s wide-eyed flinch. Creek just knows he has to be off in the noggin. He can count on one hand how many times he’s considered Branch a step above beautiful.

Once while they were children and a few moments ago.

No, he’s never thought of the grey troll as ugly. No one in the village does. Branch is as fetching as any troll whose years in the wilderness has contributed in a way that has helped create a nicely toned body and rugged look. It’s only his grey skin that hinders his sex appeal. Creek remembers Branch’s color as a child, but the memories are vague and hardly matter. A trolling’s color changes upon reach puberty and can easily morph into an entire different hue or some variant of their current skin tone.

He finishes tying the yellow bandana around his neck and rights it to rest just above the sleeveless tangerine and navy burnish vest and khaki pants. This is incredibly colorful for his liking. It’s has a more outdoorsy flavor. Creek can’t figure out where Cecil’s mind is these days.

Creek’s done before Branch and sits in a plush chair outside the dressing rooms. There are more designs Cecil wants Creek to model for him, but this one’s top of the list and Cecil swears it’ll knock the eyeballs out of anyone passing by. So, some small, sadistic side of Creek wonders if Branch is immune and wants to see the grey troll’s reaction.

But he’s taking an awful long time.

He stretches out his legs and reclines against the chair’s cushion when he hears a smack and a muttered curse word.

“Language, Branch.”

There’s a pause. “Creek, ya mind comin’ in here?”

Branch sounds too pathetic to refuse. That and the interest in knowing what’s taking so blood long has Creek moving faster then he needs to. He steps in and closes the door behind him and leans against it heavily. This is the second time in less than an hour that Branch has floored him.

Branch has a similar vest on made of leather and colored white, blending to silver, then peach. Instead of buttons, there’s laces to tighten or loosen around the chest to reveal or conceal a peek of his chest. Creek’s lips moisten against his will. He’s never known male cleavage to be so appeasing on the eyes.

Branch’s hand flies to his chest and he looks directly into Creek’s eyes. He opens his mouth to rant and his face’s all glowing a dark red and he’s suddenly unable to speak because of the proximity of Creek’s presence in the finite cubicle. And there’s the nicely arranged set of how his vest clings to him like drenched spandex.

Branch bites the inside of his cheek. “If you laugh, I swear I’ll punch you.”

“I won’t. What is it?”

“My zipper.” Branch gestures, embarrassed to where a piece of the fabric in his shirt is stuck in the zipper’s opening. “I can’t get it loose.”

“Oh.” Someone up there severely hates Creek.

Branch glares. “Don’t make it weird.”

“You don’t be weird,” Creek softly counters and gently guides Branch’s back against the wall, crowding his space. “It’s stuck there, right?”

“Um, y-yeah,” Branch discreetly shudders from the scent invading his nostrils. He feels Creek’s fingers nimbly fumbling with his zipper, grabbing the shirt bit around it as he tries to dislodge it. Creek’s hand accidently brushes against a very private part of Branch, giving him an involuntary jolt of life. He surges against the wall with huge eyes. “W-watch it, will ya?”

“I can’t get the damn thing to budge.” Creek makes a face. “Let me try something.”

Branch covers his mouth, swallowing the squeak burrowing in his throat as Creek drops to his knees in front of him. This is the most horrible moment in Branch’s life. A small part of him is dying a humiliating death every second his mind threatens to take him places he can never come back from. He will not go there. He will die first before ever picturing Creek on his knees, so close to his dick. . .

“There, its fixed.” Creek detaches the fabric and stands an inch from Branch’s face. He narrows his eyes, looking over Branch’s expression. “You look distressed.”

Creek’s mouth gapes a second later when Branch’s eyes close. His tongue is soaked in sugariness, a sweet film coating it so thickly, he can smell it in every breath. It floods his mouth, and he licks his lips—

Branch’s eyes follow the slip of his tongue and he quickly turns his head. “Get out.”

Creep snaps out his whatever and steps back all the way out of the room. He clears his throat and snaps, “You’re welcome!”

“Thank you!” Branch calls back.

The rest of their time in the shop is a blur of dodgy looks and short affirmatives and negatives to questions. Their purchases are placed on Creek’s trade credits and they leave in silence. Not side by side this time.

Being so close to the other, there’s an undeniable bond forging they don’t feel comfortable with right now.

While Branch’s chest hums a soft, pleasant buzz, Creek’s lips taste a unique zest and he can’t stop licking them, vaguely wondering if it’s a sign of someone tasting like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANKS TO EVERYONE STILL READING THIS STORY!!!!

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you guys are ready for this journey. It promises to be a fun, emotionally fantastic ride!


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